


Distractions

by wintersnight



Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Chapter 23 is my first Robinpile so there's that, Chapter 24 is a very controversial thing so please read all the warnings, Dammit I should be working on other stuff, Gen, Have I mentioned I'm going to hell? Who's on that train with me?, M/M, Sometimes you just got to have something different, Things I'm doing instead of writing full fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-11 21:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 151,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5643016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnight/pseuds/wintersnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompts that divert my attention<br/>1. Jay/Tim: Space AU<br/>2. Jay/Tim: Stripper AU<br/>3. Fractured Verse: Tumblr prompt fill, multiverse action with Tim/Other Dick/Other Jay<br/>4. Fractured Verse: Destroyed Part II, Tim/Other Dick/Other Jay<br/>5. Fractured Verse: Destroyed Finale Tim/Other Dick/ Other Jay; etc.<br/>6. Jay/Tim Stripper AU Part II<br/>7. Fractured Verse: Effect<br/>8. Fractured Verse: Alternate Ending to Chapter 22 for Azazel<br/>9. Fractured/Forward Momentum Crossover for Graywhims<br/>10. Need (or 'I'm going to hell' chapter) DickTim somewhat Explicit<br/>11. Night Sky Tim/Dami kind of Fractured? Someone asked for it so I got around to it<br/>12. Fracture/Forward Momentum Crossover II (I regret nothing)<br/>13. Need Continued (Jay/Tim)<br/>16. NSFW Tumblr prompt: DickTimJay Explicit<br/>17. Night Sky II: Tim/Dami at Graywhims request (Explicit)<br/>19. Night Sky III Tim/Dami <a></a><br/>20. Night Call III Jay/Tim Stripper AU Explicit<br/>23. Night Sky Finale (NSFW)<br/>24. Subdue: (WARNINGS of Non-Con elements; happy ending) Tim/Ra's</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Idea

_Anon wanted Space Salvagers AU, JayTim_

Two hours ago, Loyalists were searching his ship with a whole lot of _fuck you, Jack, we’re tearing this place to the nuts and bolts_. Now, Jason and his crew are breaking into the crate they’d stored in his super-secret hidey hole from the last dead bird around Centari. 

At the time, Dick had said that wreck was a bad idea. Now, Jason is beginning to think his Second may have had a point. Roy just whistles something light while he’s breaking the security on the crate, blood still painted on the side of his face from the ‘Standard Procedure’ ass kicking from the fucknut patrol (glad now he’d foregone the _Loyalists Suck Ass_ bumper sticker—he’d told Kori to put it back at the last way station). The demon already has his own tech plugged into the side jacks, searching through logs to find where the damn thing came from and maybe why the assheads are so hot after it.

Beside him, Dickie watches the proceedings, clean because he could charm just about anyone alive to avoid the same repercussions Jason and Roy always seemed to find themselve getting. “So, if something blows up, can I say ‘I told you so?’ because that would be stellar.”

Jason huffs around the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, not amused. “We checked it out, Dick. Should have been an easy haul, a snatch-and-grab. We got there first, checked out the good shit, and left anything marked for the Prime. Not my fault some dumb motherfuckers can’t keep track of their shit.”

“We could have stumbled on some rebel _something_ , Jay. That’s the only reason they’d be so on to find it.”

Kori hums from across the open hidey space. “The security patrol did seem more… _hasty_ than usual.”

“What you mean, babe,” Dick interjects, “is _douche-bag_ like.”

The princess gone rogue just sighs at him, “Richard.”

“You still love me,” the Second-in-Command (Jason must have been sloshed to make that call because, really, even the demon would be better at the job) just makes kissy noises across the span of hull.

“You’re an idiot,” the kid just deadpans, balls deep in data.

“Which one are you talking to?” Roy grunts when he goes back to the old fashioned way: crowbars.

“Both.”

“Enough from the peanut gallery,” Jason huffs on his cigarette, mind rolling with the implication of this haul. When his source had given him the deets on the missing ship outside of Quandrant 49, he’d pulled everyone out of on-planet leave and went out into the black. He’d wanted to find any salvagable goods first, maybe even pull in a sizeable haul to fence so they could keep flying.

Hitting on something other than the random security check was not in his plan. Good thing he’s a guy that keeps his options open by staying under the radar (or just not leaving survivors).

“The delivery drop is Omega Prime.” The demon finally bites out and looks up from his readings, eyebrows drawn tight.

“Fuck, home world?” Jason turns abruptly, starting to pace a little, work his tight muscles. “Only thing that gets through to home world is—“

“Going to get us killed probably.” Roy just grins back at him, using his full body weight and some crow-bar lever action.

“Odds are 87.6 % affirmative,” Kori throws in helpfully because, you know, like he needs to numbers.

Throwing his hands up is about the only useful thing he can do at this very second, “fucking fantastic.”

“…I told you so. Have I said that already? If I haven’t, just remember I—“

And finally, the crate gives, opening with a whine of metal and plastic, landing Roy right on his ass. Smoke spews from the open side, and Jason is moving immediately. He snatches Roy up by one arm and the demon with his other hand, throwing the two back from the steaming crate before he even realizes the futility of it if they just unlocked some kind of alien metabolic death virus or some chemical warfare the would shred any kind of Earthling DNA.

The smoke clears a little. No one dies. Good day.

The demon looks around from behind Jason’s shoulder where the three of them are sprawled on the floor with grating biting into his right ass cheek.

“What the hell…?” Roy is staring around him too; Kori and Dick moving to stare down at the corpse that just tumbled out, visible when the smoke dissipated.

“He’s…alive,” Kori whispers, gingerly sweeping aside the normal flowing vestment of her people. Slowly, she reaches out to lift the dark hair off his face.

“What the hell…?” Since Roy already has the best ideas, Jason just blinks at the lanky man stuffed in a crate, going to _home fucking world_ , and just… being a breath-taking enigma that spells _bad idea_.

He spies the holo-bracelet on his left arm and stands to come close enough to check the readings.

 _Seven hour, twenty-six minutes remaining_.

Someone had put the guy in stasis to survive a hard trip through space. The why or how is somewhat irrelevant since he only had another seven hours before he would have woken up in deep space. Probably dying slowly inside that thing.

The demon has already unplugged his tech and takes the guy’s limp hand, pressing one of his fingertips to the screen while Roy takes a second to check the big artery on the side of the guy’s neck just to make sure this isn’t _really_ a corpse.

“Timothy Jackson…Drake,” the demon whispers. “Second in line to the Loyalist Empire.”

And, shit. Dickie was right. Bad Idea


	2. Night Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon wanted civilian Tim, Red Hood Jason in stripper AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Whistles innocently*

 

Two blocks away.

He ducks into the familiar alley way, the default, backs himself up so the dumpster hides him. Back pocket has what he needs; the black domino, the adhesive (make sure to leave the part for his eyebrows dry; that shit hurts). Once the mask fits over his face with the usual pressure in all the right places, the immediate relief of _hidden_ , he can move again. Pull the hood further to cover his face, keep his eye on the peripherals, get two blocks further, and he’s golden.

The back is unspectacularly tacky. Like, the remnants from every Pride Parade _ever_ must be back here, left too long in the elements, losing the luster, dulling the colors to faint impressions. The dirt and sludge glints with old glitter and shine.

John, Bouncer Number One, lets him in with barely a raised brow. He’s apparently becoming too predictable if he can’t get a slack-jaw from whoever answers the door. Luckily, he’s just a few inches shorter, leaner, more graceful than most the strong-arms and just ducks under, slides right inside the dark.

Babs is already out on the floor, watching warm-up in the last ten minutes before the club opens for the night; she doesn’t _need_ a written explanation when the guy in the hoodie and mask come through the rows of tables and chairs.  She got his memo loud and clear the first time he showed up months ago. To her somewhat sadistic pleasure, he’s becoming more frequent than just moonlighting or standing in when one of the others calls in with a case of the hung-overs (sometimes even the _real_ flu) or the ‘oh-my-God-walk-of-shame-time.’ When he does come in, her other boys Get. With. It.

The kid’s only drawback is when he gets… _noticed_ by the regular clientele. The minute any of them push too hard, want his name, his number, his time, something other than what goes on in the club from open to close, he vanishes for a while.

Her luck, he always comes back.

“Robin,” and she’s smiling since he’s been gone for almost three weeks this time.

“Babs.” His eyes are incredibly blue even against the black latex of the mask.

“We’ve missed yo—“

“Do you have a spot?” No pleasantries until the business is done. For a younger guy, he holds himself too tight, too bound by conventions…until he hits the stage, and _that_ man is one the people pay to see.

“Well,” she draws it out since he hadn’t called her back, hadn’t come around even to say he was fine. “I might have an three minute between the second and third set.”

He smirks at her with too much understanding, and Babs has to laugh. She might be getting too old for the life if a kid that couldn’t be more than twenty could still charm her like this.

Speaking of charmers…On stage, Dick lets himself down from the impressive act on the pole she’d been watching, a whole lot of muscle and grace, her headliner, her boy, and her business partner. He’s a guy set on his place, as in _knowing it_ and kneels down on the edge to give the kid a wide grin.

“Dude! For real? _Phones_ are these neat things that let you reach out and touch someone without contracting shit, you know?”

Those eyes roll, “that’s just…” a self-sacrificing sigh, but Dick is still grinning, climbing down to sling an arm around the kid’s shoulder, patting her ass affectionately as the two start for the back to uniform up.

“Rob, Baby Bird, some of us don’t think you’re an asshat. Really. Next time, be kind to your poor _Gaba_ and call, write, let me _know_ you’re eating your vegetables and--”

“I get it, I get it, Dick. Geeze” But the kid is laughing and some of that _way too adult for his age_ melts away under Dick’s familiar teasing.

Babs just smiles to herself, phone already in hand to update the club’s webpage to include Robin on tonight’s score. If she was very lucky, he might take another spot in the later sets…

**

And the place is on fucking point tonight. The music pulses through the dancers, through the crowd, and it’s _life._ He just breathes, standing under the vent behind the curtain to let the cold air hit him in a rush, to let his shoulders and chest freeze a little while he works his muscles loose. He’s oiled and glittered and masked and no one is going to find out what he’s about to do on that stage.

Life is good.

And Jailbait (Damian, who just turned nineteen and looks _fourteen_ ) is finishing up with _Slave for You_ , ending with an epic slut drop, eyes dark in the mesmerized, cheering crowd around the main stage. He has a few seconds to let his mind clear, go wonderfully empty…

The first strains of his song start and he can finally _let go_ , moving to center stage with a roll of his hips, moving like he’s got nothing to lose, moving like it’s all about sex.

Back at by the bar, looking carelessly casual with a large tumbler in hand, the head bouncer gets tight when _Closer_ comes over the PA and Robin steps out of the back to take the stage. The usual reaction of clients from all over the club meander closer, bills appearing in hands, eyes enrapt with the picture he makes in that mask, that cutting gaze, his upper body bare in the lights with hard, lean muscle. The usuals, the newbies, the pedos, the closet-huggers, all of them break down when the kid makes his appearance.

And Johnny-boy eases up beside him to likewise keep an eye out.

“Shoulda told me he was on the set list.” Yeah, there’s a bit of a glare because some kind of trouble usually followed the kid.

Manning the door earlier, Johnny just shrugs, “he got by me, Jase. Scout’s honor and all.”

“Asshole, like you were ever a Scout.”

“Hey. I can make a fucking knot that’ll stand up again anything.”

“That’s not the point of Scouts, perv.”

That’s where the witty co-worker/supervisor banter stops because

_You let me violate you_

_You let me desecrate you_

_You let me penetrate you_

Money starts appearing on stage, thrown or held in teeth with hopeful, hungry eyes. But Jason knows better because he knows the type. This one ain’t in it for the green.

And that body just moves, writhes, spins, dips, crawls with lustful eyes, and just _fuck_ …

_I want to fuck you like an animal_

_I want to feel you from the inside_

Jason is a lost cause for this kid. Probably would be long after they stopped seeing him show the hell up, and his eyes are all for grace and strength in each movement, in shoulders and abdomen, in forearm and hand when he works the jeans down over his ass, bending obscenely in a customer’s face to ease the denim down his thighs.

The red undies don’t help Jason’s libido because the curve of that ass begs for hands and nails, for mouth and teeth… worse, the shape of his cock is right there, outlined with a proud curve.

“You’ve got it so bad for him,” Johnny-boy just smirks and lets Jason have his viewing pleasure, moving to work the cheering crowd with the more up close and personal. The other two bouncers usually in the back of the room are following suit, closing in on the stage.

And from across the room, like the kid can feel Jason’s eyes on him above all the other customers vying for him, the eyes behind the mask raise to him. Robin stalks down stage, crawling, pausing to work his hips obscenely, grinding the stage like he’s fucking down with rolling hips or working his ass up into the best cock he’s ever had. Still, his eyes cut through the crowd to meet Jason’s, and the bouncer finally drains his tumbler, unable to tear his gaze away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my OTP3 isn't ready for all of that, I'm working out my frustrations in other AUs. Save me.


	3. Destroyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Tumblr: 'Other universe BatFam clings to Tim because he died in their world and everything went to shit.'
> 
> Yup, totally see this happening in the Fractured verse if the chapter “Tim” never happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Fractured Verse, exactly what I told Travelfan about ;)

He hasn't really been back to the Cave in at least two years, emergency bad guys notwithstanding. The call from B had been…creepy to say the least and Red Robin has no choice but to come back, step back into his old life for another catastrophe.

On the drive, he mentally steels himself for whatever might be there.

“I need you,” B had said starkly (which, holy shit, hadn’t it been a while since he’d hear anything even close to this). “Here. _Now_.”

"None of that answers my questions." He had argued, considered just staying the hell away since that's obviously preferred at this point (and he _gets_ that. Who wants the fake son, the stand-in, around to fuck with the true son's mentality?).

But in the end, B's voice had been so rough, something very _not cool_ under the bullshit, that he'd finally agreed to take a commercial flight. Even _that_ was an argument in time. So, the repurposed BatPlane still at Titan's Tower it was.

Now, back in Gotham for about fifteen minutes after a hell of a long hiatus out, and he's hitting the secret entrance by muscle memory rather than his real one, and the dark surrounds him like an embrace. The bats skitter, flowing around him in a wave of shadows.

He pulls up as close to the main command center as possible, refusing to park his bike back with the rest of the vehicles because this sure as hell isn’t going to take long. The Bats didn't want him here as much as he didn't want to be. At least they're all on the same page about something (finally).

Backs turn when he gets off the bike, pulling off his helmet. Red Hood, B, and…a taller Robin than he remembered. Damn, a _lot_ taller than he remembered the almost-fourteen year old (still taller than you, _demon brat_ ).

"All right. What the hell is the emergency?" His eyes behind the mask are all for the fucking tall as hell Dami in a grown version of his (HIS) Robin suit and that just blows his brain a little right there. The green tights, the boots, the belt… a slow burn of _what the fuck?_ hits his spine, and the expectation of that smirk before the mouth spews insults about his mother or something makes him tense subconsciously.

"What's going on?" He amends, staying out of arm's reach.

The Bats look at one another before pointed their gazes back to him.

"Timmy?" Dick's tone is slightly hoarse, and he's dressed as the Batman for tonight, sans cowl. "Timmy is it-?"

"It's him." The taller, older Dami is standing with fists clenching and loosening, but that voice, the face that could have been B in his younger years. With the fists clenched, Red is already planning his first moves for when the Robin comes at him.

"It's me,” he deadpans. “Glad we've come to that decision. What the hell happened to Damian?” ( _Robin_ ) “Magic?"

"Multiverse." Red Hood replies, arms crossed tightly over his chest. It looks like he's hugging himself, and _what in the name of fuck happened?!_ Red Hood not going for his gun? No knives? No kick to the face? Did he come to the right Cave entrance…? "Multiverse happened, Tim. Can you take off the cowl? Just so we know-"

"What? Like someone else is going to remember how to get here." He bites back a more scathing retort and throws up his fucking hands because _really_. Just, really.

He deactivates the security and pushes the cowl back, baring his face.

"Satisfied? What's the mission so I can get the fuck out of here." Because it had been a long few years for him to, hadn't it?

But Dami, this older, multiverse Dami just takes off at a run, slams into him, and Red almost completes a throw when his brain realizes…the kid is shaking, hugging him, and might even be…crying?

"Demon Brat? What the **_fuck_** -?"

He doesn't even get a chance because right there is Dick and Jason on his side and behind him, too many arms crushing him in… hugs.

His eyes must be HUGE.

"He's here," and that's another Dick Grayson, the one wearing the Nightwing suit, coming down the stairs. "They’ve got him already."

"Tt. Trust him to be competent only when necessary."

"Shut-up brat. Jealousy is a terrible color on you."

"Fuck you, Todd."

He's starting to get seriously creeped out now.

"Let me go and tell me what the hell is going on." The hard edge must jar the three holding on for dear life, and he can finally breathe a little, think a little, but none of them really move away. The tangle of arms fall, but the three are still right up in his space (wow, personal space bubble or what?), staring at him with something very un-Batlike in their expressions. Considering where he and the Bats have been for the past two years, it’s uncomfortable as hell.

"Tim. You are Tim Drake, right?" Jason's already got the domino off, staring down with green eyes.

"Yeah." Tim points a finger between them all, "just to venture a guess: multiverse Damian, Jason, and Dick, right?"

Discreetly wiping his eyes, Damian, older Damian, clears his throat, "yes. Timothy. This… this is not our world as you are obviously alive."

"And since Bruce is the Bat again." Jason fills in, staring down at Tim with…something strangely like happiness in his face ( _what he wouldn’t give to see that on this universe’s Jason Todd_ ).

His brain kicks right over that thought. "Gotcha. I'm dead. B was probably not found lost in time, Dick kept up the Bat. Makes sense." Tim turns to slide through the space between other Damian and Jason. This universe's BatFam is watching by the big computer, apparently taking it all in because, well, multiverse.

"How far are you from getting them home?" He doesn't bother with pleasantries since, well, no one really gave a shit anymore, did they? Get the job done and move on, go back to wherever you were before this.

"Still nothing yet," Bruce without the cowl admits and even his face is creepily attentive all of a sudden, eyeing Tim like he's trying to remember something important.

"Send me the data you have. I'll start working in the Perch." He's already pulling the cowl back up and activating the security trap, turning away from the Bat Fam that really didn't need him anymore. Made it clear they didn't want him (and he’s gotten used to it, adapted. It’s fine now that he _gets it_ ).

"Tim," and that's B's hand on his shoulder, one that makes him automatically tense, ready to fight.  More so because B didn’t call him _Red_ or _Red Robin_. He can’t even remember the last time Bruce, the Batman, called him by his name.

"Tim," Dick tries, "they…asked for you to, you know, be here while we try to find a way to get them back."

"Then they can come to the Perch," he bites off, pulling out of the hold. “Plenty of room.” The _I’m getting the fuck out of your Cave_ doesn’t really need to be said, right?

This universe's Damian sneers at him, "good. You don't belong here _anyway_ , do you, Drake-"

Yeah, he's used to this. Or he should be by now, right?  But it isn't him that shuts up Demon Brat. The older Damian delivers a fucking _stunning_ upper cut to his younger counterpart and _still_ side-steps the inevitable blood spurt. Fuck. The last time someone broke Robin’s face…well, it had been Tim hadn’t it?

"You arrogant little bastard!" The older version spits out ruthlessly. "Spend a day, a single _day_ in our world without a Tim Drake. Then you will understand the meaning of **destruction**."

Said Tim Drake throws his hands up because oh he is so _not dealing with this_. Nope. He's going to get a migraine and he's already been awake way too long and just, no. Nope. Hell. No.

And the smaller Damian is just spitting some blood, you know, glaring up at his other version while Nightwing Dick kneels by him, hand on his back, Hood laughing a little, and B glaring with disapproval while the other Red Hood holds the taller Damian back, and Dick Batman tries placating this universe’s Bats. Just too much for him. Red just starts ranting a little to himself and gets the hell away from this fuckery. He climbs right back on his bike and tears out of the Cave without looking back.

**

The two Dick Grayson's are likewise drinking coffee served by Alfred. Older Damian and Jason going for tea while the properly assigned Damian and Jason seethe.

The other Dick just waves a hand, "none of us believed him. He was right, the whole time. Bruce was alive, lost in time somewhere and we-I- just let him go off to try solving the mystery. He got to Iraq and somehow got involved in the League of Assassins business, an enemy of theirs."

The others slump a little as that Dick takes a breath, "we…we never got the full story of what happened. The three assassins that were supposed to be guarding him were slaughtered. Tim… When the Pit didn't work for whatever reason, and Ra's brought his body back, he was… He'd fought hard. We could tell, but his spleen was ruptured, he bled out too fast for him to get anywhere. Later, when all his things came back, he'd left clues and we did find our Bruce from where Darkseid sent him. He… He didn't take the mantle back when he heard what happened." Dick's hand goes to the newer but still oddly the same Bat emblem on his chest.

Bruce takes it all in, letting a very tired, worn Dick Grayson tell the story. Still, he _knows_ this isn’t his oldest son, but the man in him takes in the utter defeat wafting off this man like an aura unto itself.

"Your Tim," the older version of Damian begins, "how did he survive?"

The Bats in their correct universe exchange a glance.

"He- he never-" and the current Nightwing just trails off.

"You mean you never asked," the other Jason Todd sneers. "Fuck." He looks to his Dick and Damian, "you see this shit? Maybe he wasn't meant to live because this is what happens if he does."

"Jay-" other Dick starts.

"He may have a point, Grayson," other Dami cuts in. "Did you see him? He's... It’s worse than we could have predicted. He doesn't live at the Manor, his Batman has deserted him.” (The older Dami completely ignores this universe’s Bruce and Dick pointedly flinching). “He probably hasn't slept or ate in days. He has no family any longer."

"He does have us!" Jay protested weakly. "Pretender already-"

"You fucking douche." Other Jason snarls. "I stopped calling him that years ago, long before he ever died. He’s my _fucking brother_ , man."

Jay just stares at his counterpart, “yeah? Then why is he _dead_?”

The other Jason is up in a blink, other Dick obviously holding him back from coming across the table.

“Stop this,” other Dami snarls, “it will solve _nothing_.”

Other Jason just stares with that creepy Bat stillness, a promise that if he has the opportunity, the two Red Hoods are going to have the showdown of the fucking _year_.

"That also means the Tim Drake here stopped the invasion," other Dick cuts across the mounting tension, drawing his brothers' gazes. "The Insurgents didn't take control of this world. Get it?"

A whole new light enters other Jason and other Dami.

"We can ask him how he did it," Dami whispers. "He can still help us save our world."

And the Bats from the current universe exchange a glance.

"Never heard of-" Jay starts.

"The Titans," B interjects. "The JLA was…notified of an attempt the Titans handled. It was called-"

"The Insurgent Crisis," other Dick filled in. "Fuck. Most of the Titans were slaughtered in the initial fight. Superboy survived to warn the JLA, but…it was already too late."

Other Dami makes a 'there you go' hand gesture. “Our world is overrun. Only a few thousand of us remaining to fight and if this Tim Drake has insight on how to beat them, we could take back our world.”

"…perhaps Drake should be here after all." The younger Damian allows. "If it is as you say-"

The elder Damian utters a strained laugh. "I will say it again, so you can believe me, but come to our world for a single day. Just one."

The younger sighs a little and in his counterpart's face, there is weight behind his words and the battle worn soldiers sitting before them. The scars, the more armored and weaponized suits, the air of constant fighting, all of it added up to more than the normal Gotham baddies, more than the off world missions and attacks.

This universe's Dick pulls a Batcomm out of his pocket and stands away from the table.

**

Red looks at the comm on the desk and fucking ignores it. His cell phone next.

Then it's Kon's text: _dude. Call Nightwing or that guy might go postal on my ass. Seriously, I do not want to say hello to a Bat-fist full of kryptonite. K?_

Well, Dick was Batman.

_Shit._

Dials his phone, puts it on speaker, keeps running algorithms.

Dick picks up on the first ring. "Lame, little brother-"

"Don't call me that.” He snaps without even thinking (Dick hasn’t called him that in so long, too long for it not to be anything other than lip service or muscle memory at this point). “What do you need?"

Significant pause because _I'm your coworker, asshole_ , _not your brother_.

"I'm running the numbers right now, and there's a lot of universes. It's not going to be quick."

"I… Tim-"

"96 hours maybe. That's the best guess. I'll call B when I'm close."

"Fuck, Tim really-"

"Stop threatening my team." He adds for good measure. "I'm here doing my part."

" **Stop**. **Talking**." Ah, there's the Batman tone when Dick's about twenty seconds from that flawless spinning back kick. "Thanks. I'm going to need some face-to-face time to even just _deal_ with what you just said to me. And that shit is going to happen, Timmy. Like movie nights and cuddles and fucking hot cocoa and train-surfing forever, but right now I need some input."

Blinking a little stupidly _fifty-six hours since the last cat nap_ , Tim waits in silence because really, at this point, fuck Dick Grayson.

"Still-?"

"Yes."

"Oh. So, the other universe guys need to ask you about a Titan's mission."

"Put them on." And the _I’d rather talk to them than you_ doesn’t need to be said.

Through speaker phone, he hears the thing clatter somewhere.

"Timothy," and older demon sounds really different because there’s a whole lot of not-hate and disgust in that tone.

"Dami. What do you need?" He picks out the background noise, B talking to one of the Dick's, shuffling at the table. No echo of the Cave.

"Information on the Insurgent Crisis that also occurred here."

And…fuck. Fuck. Ask him how his last year of being Robin went. That would be easier than this.

"The report is in the JLA database-"

"It is tastefully vague and unspecific. Congratulations." Other Dami comes back, but it's not the usual sharp-edge.

"Are you really trying to be funny? I'm shocked."

"Forgive me. I've been around Grayson too long,"

Not one, but two affronted "heyyy!" in the background. He doesn’t laugh.

"Tim, our world was not successful in the Crisis. There are a few thousand freedom fighters left. Us included. Your plan of action may be invaluable to helping us free our world." Other Dami just lays it all out.

And shit if that just doesn't-

"The Titans-?" And even he could hear the utter hopelessness in his tone because someone else had to have figured it out. Right?… **_Right?_**

"No… I am-I am sorry, Tim. Only Conner Kent, Superboy, survived."

And even though it's not his team, his team won, it's still a blow.

"Fuck," he says very gently.

"Yes," and other Dami is softer, more something that Tim doesn't even know how to handle at that moment.

He sighs audibly, "I'll call the team. No way this is happening on the phone."

"Timmy," and it's Dick but the subtle darkness in his tone, so Other Dick… "We appreciate-"

"I get it. It's fine. You three, meet me at 24th and Cypress. The Penthouse. I'll gather everyone while the calculations are running. Maybe you'll get insight before we get you home."

"We'll be there," and Other Jason seem genuinely pleased about something, something that must be important.

 Tim doesn't bother saying goodbye. His to-do list just got longer.

**

And all the Bats showed up and he has no idea why. Sure, the multiverse versions wanted the deets because ( _fuck, the Insurgents won,_ his heart started racing at the initial realization) world saving, but this universe's BatFam…well, whatever.

He's already got the new costume on by the time they get to the Perch anyway, only saving the domino for last. He's reviewing the current data when bodies just start sliding through the windows on both sides of his penthouse. Current Bats on the right side, multiverse Bats on the left. Doesn't matter, they all get scanned anyway.

Tim drains his last swallow of bitter coffee, one hand bringing up holograms that will soon be his team. Both Red Hoods have a domino underneath, and it's fucking strange to see Nightwing and Batman with the same build and pose side-by-side while B stands by Other Dick's shoulder: both Batmen with very _different_ costume designs.

The domino goes on and Tim becomes Red, the Titian's Red; he taps the comm in his ear once, and the cloudy pictures take on members of his team. Superboy, Wonder Girl, Kid Flash, Raven, Beast Boy. They're dressed to the nines because they recognized _the call_.

"Everyone." He greets his people.

A barrage of greetings would make him grin if the Bats weren’t here, and he really needs to get back after this round of shenanigans is _over_.

"We've got multiverse company requesting Storytime." A nod over his shoulder has the team's attention.

"Holy shit," Kid Flash says immediately. "Multi-Bats!"

"Indeed," Raven manages to sound amused.

"They need details… On the Insurgents Crisis." And he pauses a little because yeah. Cassie already looks sick, and the usual rigmarole starts.

BB starts with a barrage of questions to the Other Bats concerning what they already knew. Kid wants to know if they still have chili dogs in their universe. Cassie remains quietly horrified in her own experiences (probably; again, sorry Cassie) while Raven wants a list of telepaths that could be a powerful asset in bringing down the Mind Field. Kon just shakes his head and claims how much _almost dying_ happened that day (he gives Red an arched eyebrow, pointedly).

"All right," Red finally calls, and the Titans quiet. It’s time to work out when they knew, start making theories. "Approximately eight thousand freedom fighters, half metas if that many. The Insurgents have had six months to create bio-tech suits to deal with Earth's habitat. The Queen probably isn't on world, not like it matters. Take out the main flux of their hive, and they all fall anyway. If they still have the same weaknesses-"

"Wait, whoa," the Other Red Hood has both hands out, standing to face Red and the virtual wall of Titans. "You're telling me the Queen ain't the way to take them down?" Without the helmet on, his voice cracks just enough to tell.

Red gives a half-shrug. "In our fight, no. We needed to hack their bodies and their minds to infect the rest. They function as an integrated network on a telepathic level. The Queen is their figurehead monarch, she directs their actions, but she isn’t the main control board. They won’t just fall if you take her out."

The older Damian as Robin (as _him_ , in _his_ Robin uniform) makes a choked noise.

"That was my initial assumption too,” Red placates, “I had to figure it out while the others were trapped in the mind field. Raven and Miguel could shield me to a point, but it was enough to get into their, uh for lack of a better word, _network_."

"Holy shit…" The other Jason looks sick, the color draining out of his face around the domino. The guy's knees give out almost abruptly. Red, by some automatic response, catches him under the arm with a shoulder.

Other Dick as Batman jumps up and the two get him back to the sofa.

"Do you…do you know what this mean?" Other Robin is up pacing now. "We may have a way-"

"I can't say for sure this is helpful," Red counters, taking the other Bats down a notch. He motions to the Other Robin, obviously older than the current, almost-14-year-old, Robin. "There are obvious differences in your universe. This could be useless information to you if there are more significant differences we know nothing about. Or if the Insurgents have adapted to your world more than I can realistically predict.  I would have to…" And Red pauses, sighing through his nose.

"Red," Kon starts in warning.

Kid Flash is leaning closer to the screen, his expression hard even with the KF mask, " ** _dude_** , _think_ about this, okay? We won't be there-!"

"Others will be," Red cuts across them in his 'this shit isn't up for debate' tone.

"We need to talk about this, Red," BB starts with his usual attempt at diffusing volatile situations.

"Nope." Red turns back to the screens with three beat-to-shit universe travelers behind him. "They won." Is all he needs to say to the Titans to get the point across because there are too many scenarios that could have made it true in _this_ world; if he had been fully trapped in the Mind Field with the rest of the team, if he hadn’t been good enough to hack an alien species, if he had been too slow figuring out how their network worked to maintain their actions, their bodies… It could very well be their world overrun. Red _owed_ these travelers this chance at freeing themselves.

"I'm on my way to Gotham," Kon is already standing in the hologram pane.

"No. No one else." The tone again. "I'll have what I need to work with. O will be there and a few others. I'm not putting any of you in this path again. My call."

He doesn't see the Bats from his universe exchange glances, a whole lot of _what the hell are we missing out on?_

"The **_fuck_** , man-" KF being KF.

"Tim, you can't-" BB trying to placate.

"Dude, do you even remember what they almost did to you, to us!?" Kon is getting angry,

"You can't go alone," Raven is trying to be as sensible.

"And, all of you will be needed here, to defend our world. Got it? BB and Cassie are fronts while I'm gone."

"You can't," this time it's Other Dick, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. And…he doesn’t flinch away by instinct because this—with the Other Dick, it’s like the last two years hadn’t happened and he could actually look the guy in the face again…"Red, you _can't_. There's no way we can guarantee your safety or return. We can't even guarantee our own."

Even with their world torn apart, this Other Dick is more concerned…Red just stares up at him from behind the domino, plans already starting to form.

"And I can't guarantee the original plan will work." Red counters. "The only way to know is if I can hack them again. For that to happen, _I_ have to be there."

And the Other Dami is right up beside his Dick. "Regardless, you cannot accompany us to our world." The Robin is stone-faced, more grave than he'd even seen B. "We already have the death of our Red Robin on our conscience. We will not have yours as well."

And well, he's got nothing for that, has he? Not yet anyway.

Red eases both hands up with a hard sigh. "Fine. I'll give you the plans and the Titans can fill you in on their parts…then, I’m going to get tech together for you, like _everything I possibly can_. Get it? You’re not going back there without something you can use to fight back."

Other Jason moves up too, that tired but genuine grin on his face, and the three Other Bats are looking at him with something they may forgotten they had.

**

And Tim.

After the Titans sign off, he doesn't answer shit from his world's Bats when they try staring him down (really? Like that's going to work at this point) and demanding answers about the original crisis ( _we had it handled fuck you very much_ ). Rather he goes back to his system calculating and ignores Dick trying to plead with him to come back to the Manor, the Cave to work.

None of them reply to his terse, "It's not my place. Thanks anyway."

The staring, however, gets old fast.

"I have work to do." And he stops after that because he’s had plenty of time to get the point ( _replacement, stand-in, weakness in the Bat-line_ ).

All the Bats go, and he can breathe again.

He sleeps for eight solid hours while the numbers crunch and the Bats, along with the JLA, get the teleportation device built and somewhat calibrated, waiting for his final calculations.

When Tim wakes up, he starts with fabrication of tech, as much as he can get made in such a short amount of time. He calibrates his machine in the basement to start making force field generators to avoid detection. Then he gathers all his old reports from the Insurgents, everything on his ghost drive that the JLA and the rest of the team didn't know existed, especially the contingency plans should they ever come back.

He has to smile because someone(s) came to his Perch while he was sleeping, someone that made a fresh pot of coffee and left food in his fridge. It had to have been one of the visitors because really.

Why would this world's Bats give a shit?

Once his files are gathered, and the machine in the basement is churning out tech, he starts the set-up, creating a program that had specific purpose, his coding flawless. It has to be.

While he's drinking the coffee and finishing up, he gets another visitor.

"Nice try. I was a Bat too, you know."

Other Dick in his more armored Batman suit is hardly more than a shift in shadows.

"Sorry, kind of." He says without coming out.

"I'm sure you are. I appreciate the coffee though."

"Ah, that was Jaybird."

"Hm. And the food?"

"Dami."

"Odd but okay."

"Not…really. For our Tim anyway. He got close with Jay and Dami."

Tim slowly blinks. Just blinks.

Other Dick laughs a little, a rusty sound, nothing like this universe's. Tim has a sick feeling the Dick Grayson in front of him hasn't laughed, really laughed, in a long time. With the Insurgents taking over, he supposed it made sense.

"I could tell," finally out of the shadows, the other Dick lowers the cowl. "You, uh, weren't… _happy_ to see us when you thought we were yours."

_I was once_. Tim looks back to the screen, "nope. They aren't really happy to see me either unless there’s a situation."

"What…happened? Can you answer me honestly?"

"Why? The other Dick give you the run around?"

And Batman Dick’s expression changes, gets harder, angrier. "He was visibly upset when I asked why you weren't in the family anymore."

Tim chuff an unfunny laugh. "I'm sure."

"You two didn't…make amends after you found Bruce?" It’s hard to ignore the desperate edge to that voice because this Dick wants to believe things would have happened differently in his world.

And, wow, that’s a hard one, too isn’t it? "No. I'm not his little brother anymore…maybe I never was, but it’s fine at this point.” And the _it didn’t used to be fine_ is all there for the Other Dick to pick up. “I'm the leader of the Titans and CEO of Wayne Enterprises… But I'm not a Bat. Haven't been for a long time."

"Did he really take Robin from you?"

Pause at the keyboard because here’s another thing he doesn’t want to look back on. "Yes, he did. It's his right, I guess. Well, your right too, you know? The name was from your mother in the first place. You were the first."

"He should have _known_ better. He, I, Robin was taken from us both. He should have talked to you like I…"

_Ah, another of those subtle differences_. “Your Tim gave it up by choice."

"He…I saw him as my equal. We talked it over until we both agreed he couldn't be my Robin. Jason offered him Red Robin in compromise and he was…honored really, to take over the name."

And Tim…Tim just blinks again, hand automatically going to the old scar on his leg, the one his Jason gave him after finding out Tim had taken Red Robin…

Other Dick is kneeling by his chair and the eyes are much different, older, tired. And that small smile is so damn familiar that for the first time in years, Tim just wants…

_Fuck it._ The smaller man leans forward and wraps his arms around those shoulders, let's himself hug this Dick. Maybe it was for himself, but maybe it was because he could venture a guess at how long it might have been since the guy got held. For whatever reason, it takes the other man a few moments to lift up his arms and embrace Tim, to hold on _tight_.

"It's going to be okay," Tim finds himself saying, "I'm going to give you everything I've got. It's good intel. You can make weapons, make plans. You can fight back."

That rusty laugh comes out again, making something in Tim's chest seize tighter.

"Haven't had hope in too long, Timmy."

"…I'm going to send you back everything I can, Dick. I'm going to put everything I know to use."

And those deep eyes finally look up at him, so like and unlike his Dick Grayson, the same color and depth but without the lightness and laughter. This man isn't lying. He's lost hope.

Tim pulls this other Dick against him and holds on.

**

He has to drive back to the Cave rather than take a bike because wow, he has so much crap for the Others.

Five hours ago his systems cracked the final code, matching the readings from the BatComputer from the moment the three appeared. His fabrication hadn't been complete so he fudged the time a little, the Bats in their right universe could deal.

After parking, he's toting the heavy as shit duffle bags, backpack, and suitcase up the walkway where they, all of them, are waiting.

He sets the huge load down by the Bat made transporter device and sighs a little, loosening his tie but leaving his jacket buttoned. B turns from the computer, but Tim's not here for a fireside chat. He pulls the flash drive from his jacket pocket and nudges the Batman to the side.

"Tim-"

"It's the correct calibration. I triple checked."

"I'm sure it is, Tim, but I'd like you to stay for a while after-"

"A case?"

"Ah no-"

"Some other bad guy?"

"Nothing work or vigilante related."

"Then no. I need to get back to my team." His face lights up with his encryption, calibrating the portal. Lights flip on, a low grade hum starts.

"Tim?" The cowl is removed because, yeah, he just said no to Batman.

And he's already moving back to the portal, tapping at the settings, rechecking everything, adding a few lines of code. B moves with him, apparently with something else to say.

"You haven't been to the Manor for-"

"I'm right here, aren't I?"

"Stay for dinner then."

"No thanks," he returns without looking up.

"Then patrol with me." Changing it up, are we?

"You have a Robin to patrol with."

"Tim-" now there's the constipated look.

"I don't know what this is about. Everything is fine the way it is now." But even he can hear the hard edge to his voice.

"Is it?" The Bat challenges.

Tired of this shit since _he’s_ the one that comes whenever they call, Tim turns to face the man in the suit. "I've adapted," he starts flatly. "I do the job, take care of WE, and go home." And home isn't Gotham anymore, at least Bruce recognizes it now.

Those deep blue eyes turn hard for a second.

"I'm not a Bat anymore, so you can skip the lecture, use it for your own people. Once this is done, I'll be out of your hair until the next big crisis or until you need an IT guy." ( _How did you not know that? How did you not realize you’re the reason I stay away?_ )

And that, that shakes the Batman out of whatever he might have said, those eyes wide and churning with…something. Something Tim doesn’t have time to figure out. Voices coming down the steps interrupt the awkward as the current and other Bats make their way down.

Other Jason hit the floor first, looking at the equipment with a grin. "You brought us some toys Baby Bird."

Tim just blinks for a second because yeah, it had been a minute since he heard that…

"Yeah. I did. I promised I’d give you everything I have." He waves a hand at the cache of bags. Other Dick and Dami look at him with fondness that makes him a little shaky. Belatedly, he wishes for the cowl or domino instead of CEO wear, oh well, part of the plan anyway.

The Other Bats are silent while he kneels by the bags, pulling out the first round of discs, "these will mask your mind, hopefully, block the Mind Field trap so just watch out for the barriers. It should also deflect their scanners, but have O re-check them incase I’m wrong about the calibrations."

He stands to place one on Dick's chest, below the Bat insignia, "just like this," and he presses the center to activate it. The glowing yellow disc lights up the shadows of the Cave.

"Okay, next" and Tim goes through the tech with a short explanation and demonstration, the other Bats giving him their full attention. It's somewhat unnerving since none of his Bats had given him more than an errant thought in the last two years, but it didn't stop him. They would need to know how things worked (maybe).

"Again," he finishes, "this is all calibrated for what I know of the Insurgents here. You may need to reprogram this stuff if things are different or more advanced. Don’t take any unnecessary chances," and he pegs the Other Hood with a _look_.

The guy gives him a peace sign and a shit-eating grin before fitting on his helmet.

Too soon and the three are already hefting the duffles, Other Dami and Dick letting them rest under their capes. His backpack is left unnoticed by the side.

And Other Dami, wearing Tim's Robin costume in what he claimed as remembrance (that just made him stare at the kid for a second with too many feelings running through him), puts a hand to his shoulder with a half-smile.

"We cannot express our gratitude, Tim. For everything."

He smiles, actually smiles at this Dami, the one that was his fucking _brother_ (what he’d always hoped), and instead of words, he steps up to the demon brat and folds his arms around the kid, holding on.

Doesn't even phase the Other Dami, who just wraps his arms around Tim as well.

"I miss you," the kid says low.

"The coordinates are in the bag…in case you ever want to come back." Tim confides.

The kid chuffs a laugh at him, "you and your contingencies."

"Yeah, right? Some things don't change."

And right behind Dami is Other Jason, who doesn't even hesitate for his hug. "I'm sorry…for everything." The Red Hood says low, his arms tight.

"The other me…got it, Jay. At the time, you needed it. He let you do what you needed for the right reasons, okay? No regrets for either of us."

"Tim…"

"It's true. If he was like me, then you were our Robin, not just Gotham's." And he doesn’t really give a shit if this universe’s Bats or Red Hood heard it; none if it would matter to them anyway, so it was fine. The one that really needed it is right here, with his arms trembling slightly around Tim, the one that hadn’t even gone for a weapon the first time laying eyes on him.

One more squeeze and Hood steps away because that is, hopefully, what he needed to hear.

Finally, Other Dick, and Tim’s heart finally eases a little as the guy engages octopus hold, folding his taller frame down. And this, this is the guy he can call _brother_.

"I'm sorry I can't do more." And the lies just roll off without a hitch.

"Don't say that, little brother."

The current Dick flinches when Tim allows it, doesn't correct his multiverse self.

"I wish-"

"It's okay, Timmy. It’s more than we could have hoped for.” And those arms tighten more, hold on with a desperate strength. “Thank you. _Thank_ - _you_."

Tim just nods against the side of the cowl and tightens his arms too.

The portal glows green gently, a reminder of _closing soon_.

Other Dick finally sighs and pulls back. "All right. It's that time." Tim just nods.

He follows the three to stand by the portal, watching Other Dami and Jason give him a last wave before they step through.

Now, with the acting. "Dammit! Wait, Dick!" Tim snaps, keeping other Dick back a second. Tim digs the wrist computer out of his pocket and holding it out, “here! This…”but he’s snagging the backpack behind his back by the strap with the other hand, coming so close to hold the computer out. Dick reached for it too late because Tim just flicks his wrist and tosses it into the circle of light.

"What-?"

"Oops," Tim grins and jumps in behind Other Dami.

"Tim!" He hears before his sense fade and Other Dick is right behind him, just like he knew would happen.

Contingency plans indeed.

**

"Tim!" Nightwing Dick Grayson yells as his multiverse counterpart dives in after him as the circle of light closes.

The second it does, the BatComputer lights up with programming and a countdown flashes in brilliant red until the portal activates again.

"Shit!" Hood stares at the programming language, "he planned this. Little asshole planned it all along."

The Batman's face is closed, angry. "Countdown set for four days from now."

In the Perch, Tim's system sends out prerecorded messages to his network of superheroes, giving a brief description of the Insurgents and a summary of the universe ruled by them. The message has his plan and the time frame for preparation.

**

Robin and Hood are pretty shocked if the eyebrows and altered cursing are any indication. Tim just grins at them, stripping off his jacket and shirt to show his Red Robin suit underneath. A domino, his harnass and utility belt, wings and pack out of the backpack he’s carried through, and he's Red Robin by the time Dick/Batman is winding up in his impressive lecture (you’re good, Other Dick, but B is the _master_ of guilting).

"Yes, I get it." Red finally cuts through, peering around the mouth of the alley, looking at the destruction all around them, taking in the abandoned streets of Other Gotham. "You can't control my decisions, B. I do. So, yada, yada, oh my, I suck. Wow, do we expect anything else? Okay? We've got work to do, so we'll jump right to the point."

He's already picked up his wrist computer to start taking readings of his new surroundings.

Yup, this is still Gotham. Just, _holy shit_ Gotham.

"Tim," and it's Dick's helpless tone when he's got nothing.

"My call. My risk," and Red turns Robin around enough to take out the discs from the duffle on his back and shove them on everyone's chests, including his own under the harness, and activate them.

A spotlight hits the street close to them, a moment of _time to test shit_. Robin grabs his arm, shoves him back against the dirty alley wall he vaguely recognizes as close to Crime Alley and his old theatre. The kid covers his body as much as he can, shielding Red Robin.

The hands on his arms, B and Hood's are painfully tight as they flatten at his sides. The three hold their breath, and the light passes over them without even pausing.

Robin turns to him with wide lenses. "How-?!" He starts in a hard whisper to the others.

"The discs hide your brainwaves, remember?  It deflects their scanners." Red whispers back. "Okay, get me to your base. We've got a war to plan."

**

The bunker under the destroyed remains of Wayne Tower is still pretty damn impenetrable, no surprise there. Dick has closed off the passage to the Cave last year when they got Bruce back from time because the guy had apparently been very fucking _far from okay_.

O uttered a cry when she saw him behind Robin.

"Alive?"

And her tone is so broken he hates to say: "Babs…sorry. Multiverse Tim." But he removes the domino to look at her with bare face.

She wheels over and reaches for him anyway, and Tim bends down to wrap both arms around her tightly, cupping the back her head when her shoulders start shaking. They both pretend she's not crying. He doesn’t let go for a second, breathing against the top of her head.

Finally she pulls back, and Tim looks around to ignore her wiping her eyes.

Meanwhile the Bats are laying the duffle bags and case on work benches.

"Why would you come here?" She finally asks, wheeling over to the equipment. "Didn't they tell you what we're up against?"

"Yeah," Tim starts, checking his wrist computer and the new readings. "The Insurgents didn't get this far in my world. We, the Titans, were able to stop them."

Now O's eyes are HUGE. “You stopped them before they got this far?”

“We had to.” he shrugs, “I had a plan.”

Dami just looks at him with a sneer, and isn't that more like the demon brat he knew.

"Do not let him fool you, Barbara. It was nearly suicidal. Not a plan."

"It worked," Tim shrugs unconcerned. "I had to get onto their mental mainframe to figure out how to take them out. Programming the neural virus was a bitch to do on the fly while I was half trapped in memories but, you know, all good. I was a Bat, right?" He takes his other hard drive out of his backpack, unloading the hurriedly packed supplies on the workbench. Laptop, extra suit, some gadgets, a mini generator to keep his tech charged (in case they had no power or something since, you know, apocalypse right?), couple power bars, and a tin of his fave coffee. _Voilà_.

He turns to O's shocked face, "we'll go over it all," he promises. "We've got a war to plan before the next portal to my world opens and hopefully, our forces triple." He shrugs again.

Dick, now without the cowl, is staring, "that's what you were doing with five extra hours?!"

Tim just grins in reply.

Jay throws back his head and laughs, "Jesus Baby Bird, missed the shit out of you, you know."

"Hey man, as long as you promise not to slit my throat, feel free to traverse time and space to crash on my couch and mooch my cereal. ’Kay?"

"Fucking righteous, Timmer's." Jay holds out a fist for Tim to bump. He does, grinning like mad because he would do everything for this in his own Jason. To have this comradery.

Dami shakes his head with a sigh, "honestly, Timothy, encouraging him like this. For shame," but the kid is grinning under the domino.

"Aw, who else would, Dami? The guy's like a cat without a ball of string."

And that makes all of them laugh, the sound echoing in a place where laughter had long been left behind.

**

Vic, the alternate universe Vic, is still staring at him with a wide eye and mouth hanging open. It's been like ten minutes, dude, let’s move on.

"Okay, Cyborg, man. Now it's creeping me out."

The League member blinks hard and seems to shake himself. "My bad, dude. Really, uh. Yeah. So…?"

"Taking on the Insurgents," Tim reminds him with a half-smile. "Got a war to plan and four days to do it, Vic."

"Right. You took 'em down in your universe and stuff, right?"

"Yup. Hardest fight in my memory, but we managed."

"And you and your Titans got caught in their Mind Field, so you could actually hack into their neural net and plant a virus to kill their hive."

"Right on one."

"And now you brought some of your tech to do this again."

"Mostly right." Tim gestures again to the older Robin. "Obviously there are differences between worlds. Anomalies. Before I can even start reprogramming my tech, I have to hack them again. Then get my systems calibrated to take them down on a world-wide scale. Some of it can be done before the big battle, some of it will have to be done during while they are distracted somewhat. I can fight my way through their main ship _if_ Earth’s forces can put a pretty good show."

Vic blows out a sigh, "woo, man. Don't ask for much, do you?"

"Heh. For right now, I just need a super-fast meta that can move me from base to base so they don't catch on in time. The rest is up to me. Once I have a sample of their coding and design, I can get to the real work."

And Vic blinks, "I've got someone in mind, but I have no idea how he's even going to _deal_ with this."

"They… Told me. Kon is the only one that survived."

"Yeah," and Vic's images wavers slightly when his old school encryption to keep under the proverbial radar hitches to the next sequence. Red can already see it.

"He's…been in a bad place since then. No one's been able to reach him, not even Supes."

Tim stares, calculating. Seeing him could do irreparable harm…or it could give Kon back what he needed to move on, to fight again. When he lost the guy in his universe…yeah, it had been shit, hadn’t it?

"I can't promise anything, Vic. When he died…I was insane, he was my best friend and I couldn't save him, so I don't even-"

"Oh. _Oh shit_. They didn't tell you…? Ah." And now the guy looks very uncomfortable. Even his bionic eye is looking away.

"Tim," Dick just frowns, "our Tim and Superboy were a… _thing_."

Slow blink time. "A thing?" He repeats it slowly since _maybe he misheard_.

"Yes," Dami confirms, "after our Timothy and Batman-"

"Whoa, **_what_** now?!" The lenses are up so they can see how slightly horrified his eyes are.

"Me," Dick specifies, "not B."

Now there's…Ah…

"I would so high five myself if I could." He murmurs to himself, "just, _wow_. Okay, so there’s that and…” Red just uses a hand to erase whatever he’d been about to say. “Back to the matter at hand. We have no idea how Kon might react to seeing me, so maybe someone else…?"

After a moment of consideration, Vic shrugs, "Supes is off world trying to rally support for Earth. Superboy is going to be your best bet here, Red."

And Red sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. "All right. What do I need to do to contact him?"

At that, Vic grins. "Easy, Red. Go outside where it's somewhat safe and call for him. He'll come. In the meantime, I'm going to put out the wave for every fighter out there to get in contact so we can get the plan moving. I'll be in touch." The JLA member gives a two fingered salute before the screen goes dark.

And Tim is at a loss, turning slowly to the Bats still staring at him.

Dami doesn't even let the awkward set in but just throws up his hands. "Babs and I are leaving. You two, do not make him regret coming here." He wheels her around abruptly, taking her out of the communications room, and her expression is decidedly not happy (some things remain the same).

Tim crosses his arms and waits.

"Ah," Dick takes the cowl off for it. "When you turned sixteen… You came to us."

"Us?"

Dick and Jay exchange a glance.

"Oh… _Oh_. 'Us' meaning _you two_ … Wow. That's wow." And yeah, he would super high five himself. **_Twice_**. Dick Grayson _and_ Jason Todd…just, wet dream of _his fucking life_ before his relationship with the Bats went to shit.

"A few months after Bruce “died,” you- our Tim- started trying to tell us he was alive somewhere and we…"

"Didn't believe him. Kon did, so that's how that happened."

Jay nods gently, "yeah. Our Timmy finally gave in to the clone. He, Superboy, went a little crazy when Tim went off to try finding B. He was here when Ra's brought the body back."

And Tim sighs a little because this is going to be a distraction from the reason he's here, but- "first off, I owe your Tim so many props. So. Many. Props. Because you two, wow." The two grin and at him, but he holds up a hand. "Second, I don't think your Tim is dead. He's alive somewhere."

And now, he's got their attention. "But, the body-"

"You also saw B's body. Was he dead?"

"Uh, no-"

"When you got to my world, did you feel a second heartbeat? Like, from the other you?"

The glance exchange again.

"Because that's what I felt, still feel. He's not dead."

And that bomb has Jay choking and Dick's knees giving out.

"Hey, hey, c'mon," he kneels by Dick and Jay falls beside the guy to throw both arms around him.

"Look, he's alive, still surviving. After this war thing, I will help you find him, but I'm pretty sure I already know kind of where he might be."

And both the older Bats look broken as fuck, "where-"

Tim just gives a half shrug, "Ra's." Is all he needs to say.

"Fucker," Jay snarls.

"Pretty much," Tim agrees. "But I already have a plan, so all good."

And the laughter this time is more tears soaking into the shoulders of his suit, but it’s okay. Red Robin, the Other universe Tim Drake is sure someone is alive (again), and this time, the Bats believe him.

**

Dami and O are staring. Just still in shock.

"He's-" O starts.

"Alive," Dami finishes hoarsely, arms tucked tightly around himself. "Of course he is. Who else would be able to find him but _you_?"

Tim shrugs, "you felt yourself when you hit my world. I felt his heart beating when I got here. Logical conclusion."

Dami just nods and his expression takes a turn for the stubborn. The same stubborn Jay and Dick had when he told them.

Red throws up his damn hands. Fine. Just _fine_. Multitasking on a whole different level of _we’re on a time limit, people,_ it would be then.

"All right then. Dammit, you three. Okay, change of plans." And fuck. "Do we have a BatPlane?"

"Two, hidden in the underground," Jay answers tightly.

"Okay. Okay then. I need Kon first, he can help us fight our way in to get him out. I'll recalibrate the plane with my blocking tech so the Insurgents will have to be right the fuck on top of us to find us." He starts pacing now, thoughts going a mile a minute, diverting to other scenarios, other contingencies in case different things come into play.

"Christ," Jay finally whispers, "you're just like him. God-"

"I have to have other plans in case shit starts failing somehow," he defends, but Jay is suddenly up in his space, looking down fondly, eyes soft and warm and _oh God_ what he would **_give_** to have his Jason Todd looking at him like this. What he would give to have his Damian shake his head with mirth and affection, a real brother. His Dick look at him with heat below the surface of those dark eyes, body coiled with tension and want…

Jay leans down and presses his lips to Tim's forehead briefly. And that just…

His breathing hitches; he turns his back on pure reflex, hiding the whole lot of pain and vestiges of longing welling up in his chest.

"It's okay," Dick's voice just wafts over, "sorry-"

"I can't," Tim interrupts ruthlessly, his muscles automatically tensing. "I can't have this. Can't get used to it, okay?" And fuck, is that _his voice_? "Don't take offense. I'm here for a job, so I've got to focus on that. Okay? Just don't-" _hate me like the others_.

"Okay, Tim. Okay," and the hand on his shoulder is almost too much but he still needs it.

**

Now, he can see the abandoned Manor in the distance but hadn't had the heart to ask where Bruce had gone or what happened to Alfred. Those answers would wait.

Instead, while the other Bats have his back, discs on, he takes a deep breath and rears back.

"Kon! I know you can hear me!" Pause. "If you're going to make an epic entrance, now is the time, dude!"

And here's the part where things happen that aren't really according to plan. He doesn't just get Superboy; he gets most the fucking other universe JLA.

Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, Flash, Superboy, Aquaman Cyborg, and… Superman is carrying a tall man dressed in a dark ninja costume with the Tengu mask and…fuck. He recognizes that shit in a heartbeat.

Kon is the first one to reach him and for a Kryptonian, he's all skin and bones, face gaunt with those dark eyes.

"Tim!" And that broken voice just goes right to his heart, his best friend looked like death warmed over. "What happened to you? Fuck you're taller and-"

"Hey man, slow down okay? I'm not your Tim Drake, Kon. Sorry. Multiverse and stuff." He blinks behind his domino and suddenly finds himself holding the clone up with both arms. "It's cool, your Tim is alive and we're going to find him. Then we're going to have a hellatious war and send these motherfuckers packing. Okay? That's why I'm here."

And the guy breaks down a little (a lot), holding on to his shoulders and shaking like crazy.

"Let's get him to the bunker, out of plain sight," Batman suggests with a hand to Red's shoulder. "We can go over the plans with the JLA and go find our Tim."

And yeah, he agreed. The force field wouldn't deter the roving Insurgent security detail patrol for long. He lifts Kon as he stands (role reversal right here; his Kon would be dying of embarrassment), shaken by how light the guy is and by how much the JLA is staring at him while he moves with the Bats at his back.

"Why aren't they coming for us?" Diana asks while moving. Red cuts her a grin over Kon's grasping hands on his shoulders.

"We kind of sent them packing in my world, so I kept some of the tech I created during the Titan's battle. Seems some of the calibrations are good, but for the bigger equipment, I need more data. It's… Well, not something I want to leave to chance."

"You aren't really Tim Drake," and this from the Tengu.

"Really, B. I'm hurt. Well, not really. You found Shiva again, swell. Hate the mask still, just saying."

And it's telling about how much Batman the guy is not because he _starts_.

"How did you-"

"I was still your Robin when Bane broke your back," he deadpanned as the secret underground door opened for the new Batman. "When you healed enough, you went to Shiva to get yourself back." He glances over at the Tengu, "this universe has some different… Nuances. Did that-?"

"Yes," B interrupts, "yes. Our Tim Drake was my Robin during that time."

And the passage opens up to the bunker, giving Red a place to set Kon, even if he has to give the guy a minute or two to let go, talking gently to him all the while. ("It's okay, man. We're going to get him back. We're going to free your world. That's why I'm here. You're not alone.")

"So," he finally says, turning to the avidly curious JLA.

Behind him, Kon's hand stays fisted in his cape. He doesn't move any further away, letting the guy rest his forehead against the back of Red's shoulder.

"I'm multiverse Red Robin or Tim Drake. Your, uh, Bats appeared in my universe because, well, Lex Luthor is a tool and shit happens. I was able to get the coordinates of this world while they kind of told me the Insurgent's Crisis went down very differently here. So, me being me, I kind of fooled them and came through to help out on that front. I brought the tech we used to beat them. More so, I've set up the portal in my world to open up in four days, and sent messages out to my groups of superheroes to come through and help out on the ‘Send the Invaders Bye-Bye’ parade. Made some nifty invitations and everything."

Diana comes forward to grasp his upper arm, "knowing what has happened and you've still come to aid us?"

Red blinks at her from behind the domino, "well, I was a Bat. That's what we do." He shrugs again, "besides, the Insurgents were one of the worst foes we've ever faced. They will destroy this world eventually, overrun it completely. We have to stop them now, while there are still fighters to do so." And Red Robin pulls the domino away, facing them with his dark eyes, the leader in him coming to the fore as he throws out one fist, "who's with me?"

And this Tim Drake, this Red Robin is so like theirs in mind, in personality, the JLA, for the first time since landing to meet his call, straighten to their full height.

"I am with you," Aquaman says first, coming to lay his hand on Red Robin's. "Me and mine of the sea will lend strength to your fight."

"I am also," Superman steps forward to also put his on top, "you have my strength to add to yours."

"You will have the support of the Amazons." Diana swears, her hand atop the pile.

"I'll call the Lantern Corps again. This time we'll give 'em hell." As the Green Lantern ring glints on the pile of hands.

Shakily, the arm that comes around Red Robin from behind is the silent Superboy's full support.

Cyborg grins with anticipation, "what's a good fight without tech support, am I right?"

In a moment, the Flash grins, already across the room with his hand on the pile. "You know I'm in it to win it!" Because, well, _Wally_ after all.

And the Bats approach steadily, silently, throwing their support in with the rest, Robin laying his hand on top with determination in every bone of his body.

Finally, the Tengu removes the mask to the man underneath. And Bruce, the World's Greatest Detective, the fighter that has never given in, lays his hand with finality on the growing pile, his blue eyes dark with strength that had left him, revitalized with the need to save their world.

"It's going to take everything we have, people. But, we're taking our world back or die trying."

And Red Robin grins like mad, his free hand behind his cape to hold on to Kon's other wrist for support, "well then, I guess it's time to be heroes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe more the next writing block, but yeah, this is...yeah


	4. Destroyed Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part II of 'Destroyed,' from the Fractured Verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The response and ideas were so overwhelming that I had to give it more. Dementra wanted the Bat’s eye view as well, so there you go. Ah, and BEFORE YOU READ: *ducks head, holds up a flashing neon sign that says “Warning: This Chapter contains EXPLICIT material. No likey, no read.” RUNS AWAY*

  _Five days ago:_

A large majority of his life has been spent here, in the deeps and darks of the underground network of caves under his ancestral family home. He know this place like an extension of his body, like he knows the air in his lungs and the blood beating under his skin; he’s climbed every inch, been the one to run cable for power, the create work stations to support the night life. This is his sanctuary; so, when the air around him charges, changes dramatically, he snaps to immediate attention. The swirling whirlwind of colored light has him pressing the proverbial panic button under the computer consul's main drives, everything turning off instantly until he calls out his password and voice/face rec accepts. The Cave locks down tight.

He's got paralyzing pellets in one hand and a Batarang in the other along with numerous tricks for whoever in the hell might be coming into his home turf. The Batman is ready.

The rainbow of colors sparks, widens into a circle of blue, an obvious portal, and… three of his sons tumble out?

He almost double takes since he was certain he'd left Dick, Jason, and Damian upstairs with Alfred eating breakfast less than twenty minutes ago. His detective’s mind combined with years of experience go to four distinct possibilities:

  1. Time travel
  2. Clones
  3. Evil plots (Luthor, you rat bastard)
  4. Inter or external dimensional rifts



And that's the short list.

He expects a plethora of actions/reactions from the boys he tried to train to always be prepared for the unexpected, to never underestimate a situation; he isn't disappointed. The three untangle their mess of limbs and are on their feet, back-to-back, in a blink, and... he honestly can’t remember seeing all three of his sons work in tandem with one another, moving to cover each other’s blind spots, weaknesses automatically (Dick and Tim could do it effectively).  

He blinks while the three of them immediately take in their surroundings, on guard: Dick in the Batsuit, Jason as the Red Hood, and Tim as Robin.

Tim… No, skin coloring and facial features are all Damian…Damian, older, taller, broader in a modified version of… _Tim's Robin uniform_ (his eyes slide to the glass case, but the uniform is still there on display next to Jason’s)? However, a quick glance tells him this suit is more armored, weaponized, same wide utility belt, same green leggings and black boots with Kevlar and something else distinctly _different_.  Similarly, Hood's previous design is likewise more armored than a jacket and body suit with Kevlar overlay, just as the Batsuit is more reinforced.

The three start a running monologue without pause, ready to take on whoever they think is going to come out of the Cave for them.

"Who's memories?" The slight accent, a twist to the words, is indeed Damian.

"Fuck, the _Cave_?! Really brat?"

"Might be mine," from Dick.

And then they're eyes are all for him, standing by the computer in his own fresh suit; he’d been making reports of the activities after a few hours sleep (a miracle, but sometimes those happened).

"Holy… _B_.  Has to be Dick's or mine, look at that suit. Before your time, Rob."

"Father…" And in a single word, he knows Damian is very different. _Future, maybe I died for real this time?_

"Boys," he holds up both hands, no weapons. "Take a breath. What's going on? Where were you? What happened?" **_When_** _were you?_

"Oh my God, it sounds so real." And Dick is nearly breathless. “What the hell is this?”

 _It?_ Okay, time to re-evaluate the short list. "I am real, Dick. Want to tell me what you did to my suit? I thought we talked about too much versus too little."

Now the three are drawing back, stepping away, deeper in the Cave.

"How is he interacting with us if this is a memory?" And Damian's voice from Tim's Robin suit gives him another wave of something _terrible_. With the Tim that exists now, the one that’s probably with the Titans, or the Tim these three may know..?

 _Focus on the moment, gather data first_. "Not a memory, at least not that I’m aware of. Are you from the future? Damian, how old are you? Dick? Jason?"

"H-Have they figured out how to alter the Mind Field?" Dick moves like a shadow and nope, as good as his eldest son is, he's always had a flair to his fighting, his flying, a hold-over from his days as an acrobat, a true showman. It’s an integral part of him. This Dick Grayson, however, has had that tendency trained right out of him; something devastating must have happened, this man _is the night_.

"Is this one of them?" Batman Dick demand of his brothers without looking away.

B's eyes narrow.

"Shit that look." The Red Hood breathes. "If it’s them, they're good. Fuck, I'm getting chills."

"How do we tell?" And the desperation in Damian is not something he's heard since the boy died.

So, different tactic.

"All right then," B sighs a little. "Where is Tim Drake, the third Robin? If you don't know him, then you might be from another possible multiverse then."

Now all three flinching back at the mention. That terrible feeling intensifies.

"Jesus Christ," and the helmet is deactivated, thrown as Jason Todd's bare face, no domino underneath, worn and wary, meets him. And this is _not_ his Jason, even as much as his second son has suffered, the man in front of him is beaten down by his trials. "What the _fuck_ are you trying to pull? Tim's been dead for months. Bats,” those green eyes shift to Dick, and he has to take a second to realize Jason isn’t talking to _him_ , “he's pulling shit from our memories-!"

"Then I'll tell you what happened after the Joker…" And yeah, that never going to get easier. _Ever_.

"No dice," Jason returns. “You could all that shit from him,” a head nod to the silent, stalking other Batman. Watching it just… _what the hell happened to them?_

"Then the current you from this moment in time are upstairs with Alfred, probably worried about the lock down. I let them in and they tell you." B goes on reasonably, "or you can prove to me you aren't clones, shape shifters, or aliens. Your choice."

Under the reinforced cowl, Dick's mouth tightens, "considering where we are, why don't you prove the non-alien part."

B just shrugs, "you've already refused to answer my questions, Dick. I'm not even sure where you came from. Since Damian is obviously older than thirteen, future _you_ or elaborate trap is what I'm working with here." _And Tim…Tim’s been dead for **months**_.

The three exchange a pointed look.

"Call this other me," the elder Damian demands.

"Are you going to attack him?" Mild since he isn't going to take it as truth until he sees it anyway.

"Not if I believe he is really me."

Well, at least some things are the same.

"Computer. Begin initialization. Authorization Delta Janus Theta Sierra Desert 06051979."

The monotone voice echoes in the cavern above their heads, “voice and facial imprint recognized.”

With the Cave starting up processes and lowering security protocols, including unlocking the secret entrance upstairs for his concerned sons to also tumble through, B still hears the whispered conversation:

"That isn't from me." Dick's voice.

"Me neither. Not the code I remember. Shit could we really be in the past or some shit?!" Jason sounds so painfully tired and unsure.

"It is not from my memory either," Damian adds. “His old code was Pennyworth’s birthday and the day he met my mother.”

And then the tromping footsteps of his current three sons hitting the bottom floor in civvies and dominos.

"Holy shit!" Both Red Hoods say in tandem, and both jerk because well, in stereo.

"It's not the Mind Field," the older Damian observes to the others while staring at the younger Robin. "Maybe it is time travel? But I do not remember any of this."

"How old are you?" The younger one asks.

"Sixteen." And the older Robin pulls off the domino, green eyed with a wicked scar marring the side of his face, perilously close to his eye.

"So Grayson is in his thirties then," younger Damian muses while the two Dicks shake hands (the one as Batman does so at arm’s length, wary, _hm, smart but telling_ ) and the computer spits out readings from before the anomaly dropped their visitors out of thin air.

"What?" and this other Dick sounds offended, removing the armored cowl. He, as other Jason, looks well beyond worn. "I'm only twenty-seven, Brat Prince."

That gives their Dick pause, "huh, so…am I." And now he’s assessing this strange altered self, taking in the lines in the familiar face, the armored suit, the sharper Bat insignia.

"Multiverse," B answers for them, eyes taking in the data. "I'll need to call in some people for this. The JLA has a portal that can possibly be recalibrated." B visibly hesitates, "I may need Red Robin to plot coordinates. J’onn is usually the expert on multiverse travel; since he’s very off-world, I need someone else that can code and compare, run the analysis."

The Bats, all of them, pause.

"Tim is—?" Older Damian says in a small voice.

"He's _alive_? Where the hell is he?" Other Jay asks and a testament to the differences is that this new Jason Todd can't hide the catch in his voice or the darkening of his eyes as he searches through the congregation.

"Of course he's alive. Useless but breathing." The youngest of the group sneers, and all three of their visiting Bats turn sharply to look at him. Subtle, but the other Dick is suddenly gripping the older Damian’s wrist, tightly.

Dick in civvies sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose, "we have so talked about this, Dami. Stop with the antagonist snide against him, okay? Seriously, this is getting to be too much."

His youngest snaps straight, "You are aware, Grayson, I have every right—"

"And you _know_ where he was at the time you got the cape. He's moved on, and it's time for you to do the same. Tim was a good Robin, a good ally to all of us. He still comes when we call, doesn't he? That means he’s still a Bat, he still fighting the good fight with us."

The kid has nothing for that, a muscle in his jaw ticking while he and Grayson continued to disagree about the _Drake Problem_. As long as he stays away with his little team, everything would be fine. Should Father find some _use_ for his predecessor, he could return for short bursts and leave as soon as his usefulness is at an end. It has taken time, but Drake finally must have realized _he has no place here_ any longer, should never have been in the true son's rightful station. Grayson was the first, the beginning of the legacy; Todd gave his life for the cape. Drake is simply the placeholder until he could come and assume the mantle. He served his purpose.

A glance at this Other him, the utter disdain is obvious in his more mature features, but the Bat notices the Batman Grayson has a hand restraining, and the younger Damian's eyes narrow, assessing.

Other Dick just addresses B, "can you get him here?" And…there is no joking around, no easy going manner to this man; he stands in front of his brothers, a leader, the Batman.

"I'll call him in an hour. He's in San Francisco time, probably still out on patrol if not with the Titans."

Another look passes between these three visitors.

"In the meantime, we can hunt down some civvies for you guys, I'm sure Alfred won't mind getting some lunch together." Dick offers graciously.

"Thank-you but no. We will await him here." Older Damian denies politely, arms folding over his armored chest. The two at his sides seem to be on board with that plan.

The sense of _something off_ and now urgent strikes B enough that he excuses himself to make the call anyway.

**

Still gnawing on the consistent feel of something terribly wrong, something that had little to do with the three very different men that stumbled into his Cave, in his universe, B hadn't fought Red Robin's exit from the Cave. Of course, he hadn’t expected Red to walk in, take his assignment, and walk out either. He would have expected the third Robin to wait with them while the JLA sent the portal to his coordinates since, well, _tech_ is the younger man’s forte.

Rather, watching those three hold on to this universe’s Tim Drake with utter _desperation_ , barely keeping themselves together in his presence tells B the Other Red Robin's passing was incredibly traumatic, devastating ( _why else would Damian wear that uniform without significant alteration other than additional protection from whatever they face in their world?_ ).

Even after Red Robin had left like hell was on his heels, those three stood together around the newest glass case with Red's first Robin suit and talked quietly among themselves, hands on shoulders and forearms to comfort one another, their bond stronger than his three sons just by the way the other Jason pulls Damian into his side. He can easily deduce the relationship they had with their Red Robin to be vastly closer than his own sons.

As for calling out to his Red Robin, B finds himself…disturbed. To his memory, previous contact hadn't been met with such opposition; Red had always answered the call to fight, the need for collaboration, the tasking for intel, and this strangely brusque behavior is unsettling. Then, the kid's ( _18 Bruce, he's 18 now_ ) fight response at a simple touch to the shoulder, his complete disregard for the changes made to the Cave in the last year are likewise disturbing. He searches his memory for the latest cases from the BI database, Titan missions reported through the JLA, anything that would explain why Red suddenly wanted out of the Cave, away from the Bats badly enough to refuse unraveling a mystery like the multiverse travelers.

He comes up with nothing relevant and decides to gather more data.

The discussion at his table with these visitors gave him more to consider; this very different, obviously protective Red Hood takes up for Red Robin without knowing this universe’s version; however, when the older Damian observes out right that he had abandoned one of his former Robins, B is left with a sour taste and perhaps a bit of indecision on his part. Like Nightwing had done, Red Robin left the nest to grow into his own man, had his own agenda, his own life, his team, and he isn't a boy anymore to be managed. B is well aware his independent Robin flew further than the others, fought without the Batman holding him back, the way it should be. However, he is perhaps wondering if allowing him to be his own man may have been misconstrued with indifference. He had let things happen in a comfortable progression of natural events; children grew up, moved on or so it had seemed at the time. Nothing had been said concerning how Damian took up Robin in his absence or his choice to keep Damian on (taking it away would have been damaging, extremely so, to the ten-year old; surely Red _saw_ that). B had considered it an unstated agreement.

The phone call to Red, however, watching Dick's expression smooth out to bland, neutral lines draws his immediate attention and suspicion; the words are very the usual _big brother_ Dick, but the expression isn’t. His oldest sets his cell to speaker and just drops it in the middle of the table, turning on his heel and heading back toward the kitchen without another word.

B follows just enough to hold the door open to monitor the conversation while facing the slightly trembling acrobat in the kitchen. Alfred, with his usual subtlety, leave out the other door.

His eldest son's fists are clenched so hard his knuckles are white and veins sticking out in his forearms.

"Little asshole told me not to call him _little brother_ ," his eldest sneers, body taunt with anger, and B simply blinks at him. Dick had slapped that designation to Tim Drake from Robin training, Day 1. Literally. Sufficient evidence gathered to assume something had gone very wrong along the line, B weighs the priorities.

"We apparently have issues in our own house," he placates, listening to the older Damian explain about the events in their world. And the short, generic report from the JLA database flashes through his mental rolodex again ( _Red half-buried under rubble with blood all over his suit, whirlybird mid-throw_ ) "Once we've got this taken care of, we reevaluate."

But Dick is the same boy that first donned the tunic, named the role of _partner_ , and when he gets like this, a truly offended kind of mad, the anger doesn't let up. B returns in time to catch the distinct hoarseness in Red Robin's voice over the speaker:

"The Titans?"

"No. I am—I am sorry, Tim-"

And the invite to Red Robin's perch is pointed. Of course he noticed; Dick, Jason, and Damian did also, bristling in their own way. Still, the talk, the seriousness of the situation has them all curious enough to suit up and invite themselves along. It didn't occur to him until after the fact that he'd never been to Tim's apartment in Gotham, wasn’t aware he still had one. He’d spent time at Dick's, yes; he even showed up at the safe houses Jason favored before he had taken up residence in the Manor a few days here and there. The address is given and B stores it in memory, wondering why he hasn’t seen it on any paperwork or bills before now. Another thing to consider while he also dons the cowl of the Bat.

The visitors are not receptive to the idea of being “chaperoned,” but this isn't their city, not their call. And he would need face time to start dealing with the space between him and Red Robin.

Nightwing, also, hasn't been to Timmy's perch in Gotham; it's his first time sliding through the windows, and he blatantly stares at the guy from behind the whiteouts when they hit penthouse. It takes him a second to realize Red Robin isn't wearing a mask yet, that his eyes are still that crazy blue, almost purple, and it must have been a while since he's seen his little bro- seen the kid without a cowl or domino.

The hologram wall is neat tech, and N gives a wave from where he's standing because _hello, Titans, been a minute, how’s kicks?_

He listens to the back and forth between the team and the Other Bats, taking apart each implication as it comes (8,000 left to fight. _Holy apocalypse, Batman_ ).

B is doing the same thing beside him with Hood and Robin, all of them taking in as many details as possible, including noting the nuances of the team and Red Robin when their roles in the fighting come to the fore.

"You were able to hack the hive while in the Mind Field? How?!" His counterpart is closer to Red than a few minutes ago, sounding so much less dark and just…amazed.

Raven answers, "Bunker and I were able to block a portion of his conscious mind before we were thrown in; his unconscious was with us, and thus the Field registered him. Had Red Robin not the mental control he possesses, it would not have been successful."

“As is, it was iffy at best,” Kon shrugs a little, eyes darting the side where Red Robin is standing.

"Holy shit, Red," Other Hood is just shaking his head. "That's a one in a million shot."

"Incredible planning. Following the Bat credo, _know thy enemy_ , right?" and Dick's counterpart has a hand on Red Robin's shoulder (and _no_ , he's not seething because this guy can be a fucking big brother, and he can't. _Oh no_ , **he's** just the guy that's been there since Red was a new Robin, just training him, working with him, train surfing, saving, being saved by, being the kid's fucking Batman when he **never** wanted the damn cowl in the first place. _Hell no,_ he is not royally getting **pissed off** because that guy doesn't know _this_ Tim, was never his Batman, his partner). His back teeth grind unconsciously while he taps a foot at the easy way his counterpart talks to Red, gets a response that isn’t empty and coolly professional.

His recent Robin nudges against his side with a very sharp elbow, "what is it?" The kid hisses under his breath, "you are glaring, and I am able to tell under your mask."

N turns the glare down to Robin. "Nothing. I just don't like finding out about Earth-ending alien visits _after_ the fact. It's good to be in the _loop_ when world destruction shit goes down."

"Tt. Then you should berate that fool for keeping this Crisis to himself and his team. Should these invaders return, only the Titans would be able to stop them as the accessible data is as my counterpart observed: vague, unspecific."

"Wow, when brat has a point, brat has a point," their Red Hood in only a domino observes.

"Vic has the information apparently," B fill in from his other side. "Red gave him access after the JLA picked the kids up." And now he distinctly remembers now waving the other members of the League off with their protégés since, just by the look of those kids, it had been worse than they were telling. He had seen Red Robin catch Cyborg's arm, passing something over before extending his wings and taking off presumably back to the Tower. He remembers thinking he was going to regret letting Red Robin go off alone before boarding the jet.

Now, he does. The Titans give their account of events, the altered reality, reliving the worst moments of their lives over and over in a cycle so real it could drive one to insanity; he shouldn’t have let Red go off alone. Perhaps they would be in a different place if he hadn’t.

The Other Red Hood's legs give out, and the instinctual move to catch him on Red's part makes their Red Hood look over, expression changing around the domino like he's thinking hard, trying to figure out something that should be painfully obvious.

"A neural net hive mentality?" N repeats to himself while Red is calculating the possible difference between the two universes, and here's the moment they've all been waiting for: the part where Red is going to have to see everything for himself firsthand and want to go to the damn post-apocalyptic world and try to save it.

N and B are ready for _that train_ when the Titans oddly enough beat them to it; there’s a whole lot of _how about you stay out of it, give them what they need, and don’t get your ass in deep with any more than necessary_. More annoyingly, N's touchy-feely counterpart and the older Robin are just as self-sacrificing as any other Bat to refuse Red's non-stated offer.  He and B didn’t even get to step in with their two cents, like no one thought they _would_ or something.

And since, well, _Bats_ , they bide their time until the Titans sign off and the Other Bats take Red's offer of coffee before the current Bats descend on him, huddling around him standing at him system to start gathering what he would need to fulfill his promise.

"Deets, Red," Hood just comes right out with, arms crossed over his chest.

"You just got them." The younger man replies without a pause, not looking away from his data. "Ask B for notes if you missed something."

"Kid-" and the warning is there. Like, almost like Red hears it: _knifes are sharp and pointy, need another lesson on that? How many scars you need until you **learn** something, kid?_

"I'm not fucking around, Hood,” and there’s that dark voice, something further down the line from the old Robin. That voice makes Robin’s hands twitch. “We just went through it step-by-step."

"Yeah? Why didn't you call the JLA once you knew how bad it was going to be? Those fuckers are on the contact list for alien invasions, asshole."

"You see any of them walking around today? We had it."

"Red." And his tone should imply enough, it always has with the third Robin (hasn’t it?).

"You got what you needed to know," is the answer instead of what the Batman wants to hear. "I have a hell of a to-do list."

The dismissal stings, and N has a very important moment to pause.

"Tim," he tries, "it's just us here. Okay?"

Red Robin just sits at his system and starts typing, "there's nothing else to talk about," is all they get.

“At least come back to the Cave to work on this,” B tries to bargain. “My system can run the numbers faster, and you can—“

“It’s not my place.” Red cuts him off with no _anything_ in his tone, just facts, and those faces swing right at him, staring behind whiteout lenses because _what the hell did he just say_?

Robin shifts uncomfortably, silent, arms crossed over his chest and the familiar frown; B starts to say something but stops himself and takes a step back. N is at a complete loss because when did this start? Why would Red even _think_ —

“I have _work_ to do.”

The Other Bats are watching from the island in the kitchen, sipping coffee like it's a precious commodity. Other Dami actually washes their mugs before they leave and thanks Red Robin for his help, making the current Bats pause for another uncomfortable moment when Red gives them a small smile and a nod.

**

And Dick knew, before Tim Drake, CEO, ever called out to his alternative self, a plan was brewing in that constantly working mind. He'd already taken a step closer when Tim came right up to the glowing portal, holding out the computer _for his own suit_ (like no one would _realize_ ) and smiled.

When Tim jumped and the Other Dick followed immediately, hand outstretched, he had a terrible moment of clarity and panic: he would never see Timothy Jackson Drake again. The third Robin was going to get caught in the wheels of Fate and either stay in that alternative reality with those other _thems_ to rebuild the world or die trying to save it.

"Dammit Timmy!" He yells at the blank portal, his mind just turning with implications and regret and he wanted his little fucking brother back, keeping himself from slamming his palms against the portal but only just.

"Little asshole planned it!" Jason sneers while Damian is simply at a loss, still staring at the de-energized circle in the Cave.

"Why…? How do we get him back? Father?"

The BatComputer shoots out coordinates to the JLA and the beeping of an incoming message doesn't take the pissed off look from B's face.

"Batman," he answers, more growly than normal.

"You need to come to the Watchtower, like ASAP." Cyborg's voice fills the Cave. "You need to see this."

Without a hitch, "get ready for four us. I'm bringing the other Bats with me."

"Acknowledged. Watchtower out."

**

The Titans are also a circle of _pissed the hell off_ ; not that they really knew the meaning of the words, but Red Hood could give them a hell of a crash course. It’s taking most of what sanity he has left _not_ to start with the shooty bang bang (fuck you, rubber bullets and supes, don’t judge) just to keep himself from climbing the walls.

Superboy looks like he's going to start busting some skulls by the way his fists are clenched and the black expression on the normally happy-go-lucky kid has a whole lot of _Red’s in deep shit_ written all over it. Well, the Superbrat can just _get the fuck in line_.

Raven is just the usual gloomy and destructions, but her mouth is down turned and her spine ramrod straight. Good old BB is right next to her, not touching (because the guy is that smart), but he looks pretty fit to be tied too. Even Kid Flash looks ticked and nothing usually bothers that little shit.

"All right," Supes gives them a look over the rest of the assembled JLA, Titans, and a _shit pot_ full of other superheroes in the big meeting room (damn, is that _all_ the Lanterns or what?). "We're on the clock, people. Cyborg, play it again."

The big screen starts up and Hood nudges Kid Flash, asking if the guy brought popcorn since, you know, movie time.

Red's masked face takes up the screen, and he shuts his mouth.

"Justice League. By now, I am in alternative dimension, Earth 1458.65, one that has been overrun with the alien species you know as the Insurgents. An approximate 8,000 fighters are still standing across that world, half or better are humans; the numbers of invaders are estimated at one hundred and fifty thousand spread across the world in five strategic locations.

In four days, I will have infiltrated their neural net and cracked their encoding to create a similar virus that will attack their hive as the Titans did to save our world. However, I will need to get access to their Mothership in order to plant the virus and bring them down. Hopefully, this is where you come in. Any heroes you can gather in that time will be able to join the fight by coming through the automated portal that will open at oh eleven hundred hours four days from the time this message is sent. Any distraction, any aid in the fight would be welcome.

The portal will only open for fifteen minutes at the seventy mile marker outside New York City, the place of least concentration; if no one comes through in that time, I will close it to keep anyone or anything else from crossing. For any that volunteer, we will brief on the plan, coordinate comms, and continue on to New York City where the Mothership is stationed while secondary teams will break off and take on the four flag ships around the globe to aid in the effort. A similar communication with the same details will be going out to others in my network except for The Titans and the Outlaws as someone will need to stay in our world to defend it from the usual array.

At the time of this message, I will have the five devices needed to bring the occupying ships down, and about four hundred smaller pieces of tech that can disrupt the invader’s mental field used to power their flying devices and Earth-adapting suits. In addition, I have access to less than one thousand mind-blocking discs for anyone without telepathic capabilities and experience in deflecting the Insurgent’s main weapon: telepathic and telekinetic manipulation. However, their greatest weapon to date, the Mind Field, is a multi-functional, multi-faceted trap, that we have no weapon against. How this trap is able to register human thought is unknown; further, how it is able to trigger the most extreme memories in a virtual environment as well as distribute these memories to other in the Field is unidentified. The strongest minds can still be lost, and you could very well not make it out.

This synopsis is so you know where we stand, that way, everyone can make an informed decision. Keep in mind, many of your counterparts on Earth 1458.65 have already long fallen under the invaders and with the numbers we’re up against combined with the tech I have available, the odds are not in our favor. There are no guarantees anyone volunteering would make it home; there are also no guarantees of anyone actually making it back would do so with their sanity intact. That’s the kind of danger we will be up against.

That said, I wouldn't blame anyone for prioritizing, our world needs heroes as much as this one. Anyone would choose to deal with their own problems at home rather than risk their lives for a world already infested, especially when joining this fight could mean never going back. For those of you that decide to take the risk, deal with the ramifications, you know where to meet me.

And Red Robin gives the camera a half-smirk, "four days. See you on the other side, or not."

The screen goes to black.

The Titans move as a unit, away from the assembled random heroes, and you can bet your ass the older heroes watch them circle and start up the dialogue in angry, harsh whispers.

Supes and B just exchange a look. "All right," the Batman starts slowly, “you’ve heard the situation. Spread the word, people. In four days, we’ll see where we stand.” The other heroes gather in groups to talk about the risks, the possibilities, and while he’s talking with the Outlaws, Hood sees Wally put a hand to Big Wing’s elbow because Dickie might just burst a vessel if he gets anymore degree of _that kid is going to **get it**_. Seriously, the guy is vibrating in his boots almost. Robin's got his shit together more than N, but well, probably because he hopes Red will stay the fuck gone. That kid probably isn’t going anywhere near any of this since he hates that guy, but as he, Roy, and Kory talk in low voices, the Red Hood is already giving them an out and pretty much signing on the dotted line.

“You mean you’re going to go and leave us here?” Roy asks while the mask moves with his arching eyebrow.

Hood just shrugs because, well, _Bats_. “You two know about what I did to that kid, right?” And yeah, there’s that. The Red Hood might not be the kid’s fanboy or anything, but he’s come a long way from trying to slit the little shit’s throat. He’s a guy that can recognize when he’s got amends to make. He hasn’t been able to make the steps, not with Red staying away from his crazy ass (which isn’t actually true since there were too many ‘ _You look pretty fucked up, Hood, give me your damned hand unless you liked dying the first time so much you want to give it another go’_ and _‘you only have three slugs this time, looks like you’re getting the_ fuck, fuck, duck _thing we’ve been talking about_ ’).

“When you were bat-shit crazy, man,” Roy points out and then laughs like a fucker because his puns suck ass. Man, get a joke book out of this century.

“Cute, asshole.” And he crosses his arms over his chest, “I’m getting back the with Bats, slowly but surely, and if they go, so do I. Don’t mean you two gotta be in that mess.”

Kory lays a hand on his arm, voice low, “Jason, we are with you. If you intend to go, we shall stand with you.”

Roy grins, “you heard the lady. Hell, maybe Bats won’t give two shits about the kid either, and you’re off the hook.”

That does nothing to make Hood feel any better. Rather, he briefly wonders how many clips and guns he can pack in four days.

**

_Now_

"Dude," Other Kon groans from the back of the plane, "if I eat anymore, I'm going to hurl."

Red grins from one of the pilot seats, working his system to recalibrate the outer force field every ninety-one seconds. Multitasking as he does it, he's also crunching the data they were able to get while the Bats got the plane ready with his tech. He and Kon hit three out of the five hot spots of activity, getting samples of the neural encoding (similar building blocks, this wasn’t even going to be that hard, score) he'd need to figure out how to break it down. The guy had been ready to fucking drop when they met the Bats back at the base, pausing at the workstation set-up for Vic to start getting messages out to the other freedoms fighters, looking pale as shit and shaky.

Red had caught his arm, sat his ass down, and shoved a water bottle and four protein bars at him immediately, making him stop on the threat they would leave his ass in Gotham while they went to get this world's Tim and _don't fuck with me Kon, I will so tie you to a chair and put Kryptonite on the table, don't test me, man_. Not. Even. Joking.

Well, at least one Kon-El took him seriously (oh yeah, those eyes had gone wide when he made to reach in his utility belt).

"Geeze Superbrat, it's an enclosed space. Get it?" Hood snickers from Red’s right.

Batman just shakes his cowled head, manipulating the controls while Superman stays close to the jet outside, over his shoulder. Wonder Woman looks intense from the other side. "Hood, you could at least stop making dead Robin jokes in the interim."

"Pfft, they're all about me anyway."

"Still, not helping the sitch."

"Awe, c'mon, Bats, you're no fun."

And Red just rides through the banter (because there can be this back and forth, _that it can happen_ , makes a piece of him ease), grinning to himself while he finds even _more_ parallels in the code (recalibration is going to be less intensive) and planning his first to last step inside Ra's Cradle.

"Kon, you're at least thirty pounds underweight. If your Tim chews my ass out, I'm totally throwing you under the bus, man." He deadpans, completely serious.

"If I hurl, I'll still be thirty pounds underweight, _and_ it'll stink like hell in here," the super replies from the back.

"Okay. Got me there," he snarks back, glancing over his seat at the guy who is looking seventy one percent better than he did a few hours ago and grins at him.

One of the best things he's seen all day is Kon grinning back.

"We're about fifteen out, Baby Bird," Batman reports while sticking out his tongue at Superman for kicks before the alien catches him. The head turns lightning fast, but _Batman_.

"Sweet. Ra's might just shit kittens and die for real once he sees me," Red grins, a sharp edge. "I am stoked to kick the hell out of some ninjas. I bet this Ra’s is going to get super pissed when I foil _his_ plots, too."

Hood laughs and his eyes are suddenly very _intense_ , "fucking right, Timmers. We're going bowling for Assassins!"

"Dude, I always pick-up the spares."

"Hope you brought your own shoes," Bats pipes up, "alley ones are sick."

"True story, bro. They let just anyone with rockin’ tights just use that shit. Mine are all steel-toe though."

"Or scaly panties, asshole!" Hood points out and all three laugh.

"So, cute bantering on pause," Kon clears his throat, "is there, ah, a plan?"

Red turns so Kon _knows_ he’s getting the Bat stare, "Dude. Seriously? Of course I have a plan. Are you sure you’ve met me? Like, _him_ me?"

"Ah, okay. Just, uh, checking. Sorry, I should have known, right?" And there’s a little hitch in him that makes Red feel _instantly_ bad because yeah, the guy lost a friend, a team mate, and apparently a boyfriend (as odd as that is for him, wow, his Kon would be just as wierded out).

Red sighs at him, placating, "the Insurgents aren't hackers, Kon. Like, that hasn't changed a bit. Good for us, bad for them. Good because I can still find and infiltrate not only _their_ tech but also ours here on Earth, it’s just easier because I’m not going through a whole lot of _new_ and up kept anything. Apocalypse, right?" and with a few key strokes, the screen in front of Red lights up with an underground cavern.

"Holy. Shit." Kon breathes. Leaning over Red's chair, the meta’s eyes are HUGE. The Bats are also looking at the screen, the lenses and helmet coming back to him briefly.

"Can you show me-?" Kon starts.

Red sighs a little, "you might be…ah, disturbed."

Kon's eyes go wider then hard, blue ice.

A few keystrokes and the screen changes, the camera feed obviously in the corner to show the whole room, and a medical bed is surrounded by equipment, lines and tubes, flickering light displaying numbers: blood pressure, heart rate, O2 intake.

The figure on the bed doesn't move, is pliant in unconsciousness. His arms are tied, elevated with straps fastened to hooks in the walls slightly above his head. A member of the League diligently works one leg in a series of moves, keeps the muscles from atrophy.

Around the bed and medical equipment, three large flat screen televisions flicker with lines and lines of code, of numbers and data (and he recognizes it all, the flowing numbers and calibrations almost exact to what he’s been doing this whole ride). The furthest screen, however, is a first-person view, a running leap off what could have once been Wayne Tower…

"Fuck. _Motherfucker_ , Tim!" Kon yells at the screen, horrified, color already drained from his face. He’s shaky as hell, just almost _not there_.

"I know, Kon," and it's Red's voice, strength and solidarity, the leader of the Titans. "We have his location. We are getting him back. But," and Red stands, still about a foot of room to the top of the plane, grabs the guy’s face, forces him to focus. "They could kill him before we reach him. Do you understand, Kon-El? They could murder him in a heartbeat."

"I-" Kon's tone is a little broken, a little horrified, "I get it."

"To keep that from happening, we follow the plan, got it?"

The guy is shaky, eyes watery, and almost black with emotion. "I'll follow you. Whatever you say, I'll do it, just…just-"

"We're going to save him, but I need you, _he_ needs you to keep your cool, okay? We can't do it without you." (Sure they could because, well, _Ra's_ , and plan is already in his head for _what if he has to do this solo_ , but Red's not above lying for the greater good; he’s the guy that lies to Batman).

The vestiges, the ghost of _his_ Kon overlays this one, the broken, worn one, as Superboy straightens, his jaw firms, and that stubbornness starts taking over the guy's expression. Give him a killer ‘hawk and they’d be getting somewhere.

"I'm tight, Red. We're going to get him out."

Red Hood's turns in his seat to let a hand gingerly grips the guy's shoulder. "Rockin,’ kid. The set of _balls_ on you, man. Fucking. Righteous."

Kon grins at Hood over his shoulder, "I'm with you guys, Jay. Bats always had my back, no matter what, but I guarantee I'm going to return the favor."

Batman laughs, and honest-to-God, the sound makes something in Red ease down even more, makes something in his chest get tight with expectation that is very _not_ what it should be right here, right now. It takes a few seconds longer than normal for him to come back to the task at hand, but looking at Superman giving him a thumbs up from one side of the plane and Wonder Woman winking from the other, he just breathes as the realization hit: it's going to be a good day, one _hell_ of a good day.

**

 _I’m kind of angry right now. Ra's is usually more on his game than this_ , Red thinks while he rebounds off the cavern walls. Maybe the whole Apocalypse Now thing affected the League of Assassins more than he originally planned; well, that or the normal mass of ninjas and killers are having a meeting on their new 401k plan somewhere. Really, who knew?

Superman had made a path for him and Kon to fight further down into the underground tunnels, so the Bats, Wonder Woman, and Supes would be along eventually. Not even an issue, really, it’s a lot more help than he normally had against an alarming amount of ninjas ( _where does he **find** these people, Killers R’ Us?_ ) and a few more immortals thrown in the mix. Like, usually, he had a whole lot of zero and none; actually, he kind of started thinking his Ra’s might just be too cheap to hire a decent ninja training, so let’s speed dial Red and let him know about this _terribly_ dastardly plot: let the ass kicking begin.

Red's boots connect with a face on the down side of the rebound and he's still moving further, giving an appreciative glance at Kon backhanding another without even breaking his stride because _natch_ this world Tim Drake would have made the guy train like hell if they were indeed going steady ( _no, dude, hold my hand, don’t break it_ ). No one was dead because _oops, super powers, my bad_.

He checks the schematics on his wrist computer, "almost. Ten meters."

The security feed was looped the moment they landed, so the alarm must have been triggered already; thus, a high probability Ra's and a shit ton of killers for hire are waiting for them in that room.

He's armed to the nines with the usual array of Bat stuff, pellets, discs, explody things, but the real question is going to be whether this world's Tim Drake is going to be used against him as a hostage or not. That’s where the plan breaks off into several other avenues of action.

"Get ready," he yells at Kon as their door comes up on the left.

Sometimes being right is a curse because, well Ninjas. Oddly enough, no sign of Ra's in the small room housing this world's Tim Drake.

Red doesn't even pause but dives into the mix, jumping to flip over the mass majority to put himself by the incapacitated man as the bo is ready to go to work.

And fighting with this Kon is just so incredibly… Different. His Kon still has hang ups about his strength and hurting people, had issues with the TTK and the heat vision; this Kon is the picture of control, of knowing himself (did he learn it before or after his Tim "died"? Did his Tim succeed where _he_ is still working with the guy in his world? Maybe he should take some notes).

Kon just starts this spinning thing before Red can take another one out and its a whirling smack-down all over the place that ends with this super right beside Red, seemingly _done with this shit_.

"Nice," is all Red can think to say as they both turn to the Tim Drake hooked up to a hell of a lot of machines.

Systematically, he goes through the equipment and hanging IVs.

"Tim? Babe?" And crap, Kon's voice is small, a whisper when he's at the bedside, staring down.

"They're keeping him in a medically induced coma, kind of, mostly. Thank fuck," he says while looking at the working code coming directly from that Tim Drake's brain, along with the false VR environment they're feeding him to keep him doing something so he thinks he's saving the Bats from the Insurgents rather than the League of Assassins.

Well played, Ra's.

"What?!" Kon looks horrified, already releasing the restraints on one side.

"Look, I should have died back when-" he erases what he almost said, "he could have actually been dead is all I’m getting at. He's not, so win. His body is good or they'd have him on more medication and life support instead of drugs and his brain is obviously working. This is pretty much good condition."

He taps the comm in his ear while moving because, "Status?"

"Moving your way, Baby Bird," Hood breathes in his ear. “The goon squad isn't really playing hard ball. Well, maybe because WW kicked a guy’s balls in his throat, literally, before she head butted him but who can really say?"

Red bites his cheek, hard. "We've found the target, no sign of the Big Bad. Keep your eyes peeled."

“Only if you lose the cape so I can watch your ass in that suit,” Hood comes back, and Red can pretty much assure the guy is smirking.

“I’m a class act, Hood. Ask me to dinner and we’ll talk. Red out.” Because banter here takes that turn, right? He could play.

And Red gently takes out the IVs and ducks under the covers to remove the cath (this is so strange to do to himself. God, he is so going to need to start drinking after this is all said and done). Kon has him completely untied and held in his arms with the blanket wrapped around him by the time the Big Bad does indeed show up.

"Release him immediately," sword in hand, Ra's looks…terrible. Gaunt and barely on his damn feet. Apparently, his initial assessment was spot on; the apocalypse hasn't been good for the League of Assassins either. Well, that's going to make this so much easier than he originally planned. Tons easier.

Red pulls the domino off, baring his face.

"Ra's," he growls, “this is low—even for you."

Those green eyes widen as Red flourishes the staff. "Detective!? Impossible!"

"Oh no. I'm Tim Drake all right, and you look like utter shit. Added bonus, no windows for you to kick me out of down here, so if it's a fight you want, I'm _so_ down for it. Like I wouldn’t be anyway. Oh, PS, I know a Ra’s that’s a lot more on hit game, so please. Try me."

"This is a trick," the immortal snarls, coming at him.

So Red does what he needs to because, really, _he’s on a time crunch, people_ , and uses the plan that is not only the fastest, but also the best possible outcomes. He fakes twice and dips low, ducking under the sword, and his hands are liquid and lightening, triggering the progression of pressure points he needs. And Ra's face is frozen in horror, since he knows _all_ about this move, before his body locks up completely.

"Holy shit," Kon says from behind him as Red comes to stand before the leader of the League of Assassins after he’s used his own signature move against him: _the Demon's Trap_.

"You only had to show me once, you know," he snarls, kicking the back of the knees to put him down to them. “And I wasn’t even the one you _used_ it on. Anyway, listen the _first time_ , Ra’s, no screwing around. I'm in this world to save it from the Insurgents. In three days, we are going to massively attack and we are **going to win**. Get it? The League of Assassins better come out of their hidey holes to help out or so help me, I'm coming back here. I’m coming back here **pissed off** _after_ I conquer alien shit-heads. You. Don’t. Want. That."

And his arm goes back in a blink, coming down on the Demon Head's sternum with brutal force to release the death hold so the immortal can _breathe_.

Ra's al Ghul sucks in desperately, choking. Those eyes, however, never leave him, and just, dammit. It’s the same look the other one gets whenever Red turns the tables or pulls out some surprise _ah-ha_ contingency, and it’s all about interest. A creepy, obsessive kind of interest that results in, gee his other self getting kidnapped and whatnot. Sigh, two Tim Drakes must be making Ra’s _week_ or something.

Enough, _time crunch, asshole, move it_. "Let's go," Red waves Kon carrying the other Tim Drake out of the room, he turns to follow but a hand snatches at his wings, stopping him in his track (the whirlybird already in hand).

However, Ra's in only holding out a comm unit. "Call," he says hoarsely from almost dying, "we will come."

And Red Robin takes the comm with weapons in his other hand, smiling before he’s gone.

**

In the plane, Kon allows Red Hood and Batman to check their Tim's vitals and just _hold_ the guy they thought was dead the past few months.

(“The League is going to have our back for this stomping aliens shit, but I am _telling you now_ : Do. Not. Trust. Ra’s. He will keep coming for that guy for his creepy plots. He wants an heir like mad, and he’s got his eye on Tim Drake, regardless of universe apparently.”

“Tim would never go along with it, he’d fight tooth and nail.” Hood tries, looking up from said other him.

Red makes the point sink in when he looks away from the control panel to meet Hood’s domino and the Bat whiteouts, “ _willing_ is a preference, Jason. Not a requirement as far as Ra’s is concerned. Trust me. I _know_ from first-hand experience, he will keep trying and when you think he’s given up is the moment he springs the trap. Next time, your Tim might not be…as intact as he is right now.”

Very quietly, still holding on to the other Tim, Batman quietly asserts, “at some point, not now, I want better details, Red.”

“Not going to happen. That’s traumatize central. Take my word for what it is.” And shit, he shouldn’t have raised the lenses on his mask, but whatever, maybe that’ll give them what they need to take his word as gospel.)

He stays out of the way while piloting the plane back to the Bunker and coding at the same time, pretends to give them as much privacy as possible, but he’s struck again by how much they seem to—to _care_. This Tim is one of the Bat, whole-heartedly, and he’s sure the guy doesn’t have a mass of scars from bullets and knives (no scar at his throat, win for him, seriously, that had…sucked). This other Kon seems to understand on a deeper level as well, to be closer to the Bats than in his world. Jason and Dick touch his shoulders and back in comfort, talk gently to him while he's almost (is) crying in other Tim's hair.

When they land, Dami and O are waiting, obviously twitching in anticipation. Since Kon is shaking so badly, Batman carries their bird down the walkway.

"Tim," Dami's eyes are stricken, watery as he paces right by the Bat, staring unabashedly without his normal domino. His eyes take everything in, glancing back at Red in question only once.

"He's going to come out of it," Red tries to placate everyone at the same time, a hand on Kon's mid-back. "They had to keep him under using drugs and mind games. He kept trying to wake up."

"What did Grandfather do to him, Red?" Dami demands, his voice a whole lot of _knowing_.

"It seems like Ra's was using him to create a code to hide the League from the Insurgents. He was posing the same or similar events that happened out here, just it was in a virtual simulation. And…he thought he was trying to protect you guys from being discovered." Red shrugs a little helplessly as the Bat lays the rescued bird down in the bunker's med bay and removes his cowl to be Dick, worried older brother and ex-lover.

Kon come beside him and leans down to press a kiss to his boyfriend's forehead…when the man in question abruptly wakes up.

And _this_ guy. This guy never hit the growth spurt after he became Red Robin, he's still short but stacked, like Red was when he had the red and black Robin suit. But damn, **_this guy_**.

His hand slips around Kon's neck fast as lightening after months of incapacitation, and he moves in time to bash the meta's face in on the table, up on shaky legs, hands ready to fight, already poised to deliver nerve strikes and **pain**.

"Wow," Red removes the domino, "that's one of my fave nerve strikes, too," he says with a hard grin while Dick, Jason, and Dami just stare and hold up their hands.

Oh yeah, his other self just stops cold, assessing. "What the _fuck_ \--?"

"Hi.” He waves a gloved hand, “Tim Drake, multiverse. Luthor's a dick bag. Questions?"

The other Tim straightens from the _kill it_ vibe, arms crossed. "Correct, Luthor is a dick bag."

"Glad some things are universal."

"Indeed. Why are you taller?"

"I ate my vegetables. No, kidding. I hit a growth spurt when I turned seventeen, after Damian got the cape."

"You became Red Robin as well." The eyes are the same color as his, the same calculation when he’s planning another route.

Tim waves a hand down his suit. "B got his ass lost in time; I needed something since Robin was no longer applicable to the situation."

"That…makes sense."

"Sure it does. I had to do things Robin couldn’t. Afterward, I kept the uni since mild mannered Tim Drake can’t be a member of the Titans, make the whole secret ident kind of useless.”

“Each universe must have it’s own differences then.”

“Correct. The Damian from my world is younger and stuff, you know, a non-apocalyptic universe. We, uh, we beat them and your Bats came over since aforementioned dick bag was dabbling in the multiple universe theory. Thus-"

"You came back with them," the shorter man runs a hand through his hair, looking pretty shaky but thinking at his normal speed. And Red gives him time to process since, well, the guy’s had a busy day.

"Okay. How do I know this is real?" He demands after long second.

Dick and Jason exchange a glance and both look back to their bird. Damian groans preemptively since he apparently knows what’s coming.

"Timmy," Jason starts. "Back of the right knee."

Dick hums a little, "middle of your spine."

The guy goes red in an instant, so red he might just pass right out.

Kon just nods sagely, eyeing the two Bats from the side. " _Babe_. That time with Bart, when did _the thing_."

And the guy facepalms, now so red he might just be having an aneurism.

So, no, thanks. He doesn’t need it spelled out any more than that. "Okay. Awkward much? You couldn't have told him, like, B makes his tights with Parisian silk along with the Kevlar or something?"

And yeah, that makes everyone laugh a little. Good.

"Okay. So they are super stoked you're not dead, man. Seriously, these fools were falling all over themselves when I told them, and not to put a damper on ‘hurray, you’re alive’ or anything, but I'm on a time crunch for planning World War III. No offense intended."

And the guy looks at him, gaze sharpening, and yuuup. That expression is all him, too. Another addition to the plan; it’s so nice to have _options_.

"Start talking…ah, me. What's the plan-" but his legs give out abruptly. Kon speeds to keep him from hitting the floor.

Red doesn’t even have to think hard about it. "Well, you need time to recoup. If you're good by go-time, you'll be coordinating the efforts around the world from here with O while I hit the field and command the main effort and access the Mothership in person. But, we still have time to hash everything out. Right now, your guys are going to feed you, probably smother you to death, and catch you up. One of them can come get me when you're ready to get the low down."

Jason and Dick look at him while Dami pulls back the blankets, "okay and what are you going to do?"

"I have to connect with Vic and start on Phase II. Don't worry, Hood, got plenty to keep me busy," he waves a hand while Kon is holding the shorter Tim tight before setting him back down on the medical bed.

Dick is already pulling chairs up to it as Red is heading out the door. He has just a moment to see the three, Jason, Dami, and Dick, engulf the smaller guy completely.

 _Hm_ , Tim thinks while his counterpart struggles to return the mass of hugs, his hands fisting in Dick’s cape and Damian’s t-shirt, forehead resting against Damian’s shoulder, _productive first day_.

**

After about thirty minutes, he shoos O off to the medical bay for her own _you’re alive, let me **hug** the shit out of you_ moments while he finishes writing up some bad ass encoding. He took a few minutes to check in with Vic in whatever place he’s hold up with the JLA to track how they were doing in the gathering a mass of fighters front, pulling the numbers to fit in with the ever increasing plan and decide on the divisions (he completely leaves out any numbers that may come from his own universe, keeping a separate contingency should anyone show up; doubtful, but you never know).

Once he’s got the code and the mass of mind-blocking whirlybirds ready to be re-programmed, Red gives his laptop a rest and decides to check on what kind of supplies they may be looking at in the bunker. He moves by muscle memory, looking for the hidden door down to the old sub-basement his Dick Grayson had only used for storage (since he had _difficulties_ looking at anything too closely associated with pure Bruce Batman back in those days). Luckily for him, the lower area is still there, and the steps down are still kind of creepy as hell.

He takes mental note of the twelve modified motorcycles, four with the Bat logo, four with the R, and four that probably functioned as civilian transportation. Two Batmobiles under dustcovers, and a few of B’s old ordinary cars for day use; Red gives the familiar Rolls Royce a pat before he moves deeper.

MREs by the truckload, an arsenal of weapons for long range, the missiles for the Bat Planes and Batmobiles, even a few laser weapons probably confiscated from one JLA mission or another, cabinets stored with the customary Bat tricks (some that have been modified in the attempt of taking down the alien enemy), and _fuck_ —the glass cases always in the Cave are lined up neatly, completely dark. One of the original Batsuits designed by B and Alfred from the early days, Dick’s first Robin costume (holes torn from his second dance with the Joker or so his Dick had told him once), Jason’s second generation with the short pants instead of the scaly panties, and _his_ first back when he was using real green tights instead of anything reinforced, and…that’s it. Steph’s costume isn’t here, neither is Dami’s, the one with the grey leggings and green combat boots.

For long minutes, he stares at the row, wondering how closely this world aligned with his before the end started. Did Jason get as many hits with the crowbar before the explosion? Did Dick and B have the same drag outs as the catalyst to Nightwing, and did Superman help in defining that persona? Did he follow the Dark Knight and Robin from childhood and figure out the secret at the same time? Did this Tim Drake stand at Jason Todd’s painting, swearing he’d try to be the best Robin, he would _never give up_ …?

“Tim!”

Pretty good to sneak up on him like that; well, _Bats_.

Dami holds up both hands in the universal, ‘not dangerous.’ “I called out to you, but you did not respond.”

Old habit, but he scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sorry, just taking a break, seeing what we have in the inventory to work with. Bikes are good, but I’m sure there’s no gas for much—“

“He has tanks, planning from father,” Dami shrugs, coming to stand by Red and look at the cases. “We will be able to use every transportation vehicle here, even both the Batmobiles, I am certain.”

“Good. Everything we have to use just goes to up the odds.”

Arms crossed, the kid nods once.

“All right, what is it?” Red looks away, gives the shorter kid his full attention.

Those green eyes are full of something he’d seen in Damian, something in the up-close-and-personal variety. Anger. The kid is pissed at him

“You—you should not have come here, this is not your fight.” And, _man_ , is that sneer just a whole lot of little Damian that Red just channels his blank face in reaction.

“I would go to any universe where the Insurgents won.”

“Dick said the experience for you and your Titans was horrific.”

Okay, maybe a question? “It was,” he agreed.

“You are a fool for running headlong into the same experience.”

Yup, there are the similarities right there.

“I’ve been infected with Scarecrow’s fear toxin multiple times. Each time was worse than the last.  It’s only made me more cautious, but I don’t run from him. I had the Clench, almost died. Went after B when he was lost in time, lost my spleen, and a whole lot of other bad shit that terrifies me, but I didn’t _run_. Get it?”

“You are suicidal,” the kid almost spits back at him. “The odds we will win are impossible, Tim. You came here to die.”

And Tim, not Red draws back a little since—nope, not going there. “Seriously? _That’s_ why you think I jumped through the portal? Fuck, Dami. Being a vigilante is a big ‘Stab, Shoot, or Maime Me’ sign, always has been, and I knew that when I took on the cape, but I’m still moving, right? If I really believed your world was done for, I wouldn’t have come and I _sure as hell_ wouldn’t have let you come back either.”

Damian blinks at him, huffing a little when he turns back to the cases. “I—I apologize, Tim. That was…uncalled for.”

“Sure was,” Red draws out instead of letting on how much that last bit shook him up a little. “But, you know, alien invaders, dying family, multiverse travel, been a low row of shitty days for you. I definitely get that.” He sighs for a second, staring at the holes in that first Robin suit. “For what it’s worth, I’m confident we’ve got this. I’d feel better if I had more alien-blocking whirlybirds, but I’ll work with what I’ve got.”

“Give the design to Victor. He may be able to see more produced. The JLA still has some pull in the universe.” The kid shrugs.

“Already have. He’s going to do what he can, along with getting more neural disruptors. I’m keep the _worst case scenario_ as the default, make sure we’re prepared.” Quick glance at the youngest Robin’s clenched jaw, “Want to tell me the real reason you’re down here instead of hanging out with your brother?”

“Tt. He is already catching up and would like to speak with you at your convenience.”

 _Sure. You don’t lie well._ “That was fast. Geeze, the guy could give himself a few to let it all sink in.”

Dami just shrugs a shoulder, “the similarities between the two of you are obvious, Tim. I suspect you would be the same in this situation—wishing to do whatever you were able help. He is foolishly selfless, a Bat trait I have come to learn.”

“It’s a good thing, you know,” Red says out of nowhere, “that you’ve got his back. That they do.”

“Hm, perhaps should we all live through this, you may find we will _have your back_ as well. My brothers especially, you realize.”

And that…is a whole lot of _say what again?_ but the kid is giving him a knowing look, one eye brow arching.

“Whoa, uh, I didn’t do… _that_ in my universe. Totally platonic, okay?” _Right. Hero worshipping crushes stopped after Dick thought you should visit Arkham and not for the crime fighting, right? Jason after he slit your throat that one time? Yeah, figured shit out quickly._

But Red’s…well, not even fooling himself.

“Tt. The other _me_ must be an idiot not to see it, Tim. To your credit, you hide it well.”

“I am not—“ _hoping for that_ —“here for that, you know? Saving the world is the big goal here, Dami. It’s enough of a distraction.”

The kid hums a little, still has _the look_.

And why it’s so easy for him to say the words out loud to this version of the kid who pretty much wanted to tap dance on his grave, Red will never know, but the words just fall out of him. “I can’t have that. Why would I try for it here, get it, and then lose it? Fuck, why would I do that to myself?”

He seems as surprised as Red that the truth comes to the fore, blinking up at him with those green eyes. And Dami, Dami just turns to face him instead of the cases, grips his bicep so he’s looking down at the kid with a whole lot of _me and my big mouth_ and no domino _._

“Tim,” and that voice is low, deeper than he’s heard it so far, “this life…is difficult for any of us, invading aliens notwithstanding. I have learned, before and after the invasion, that we must take what _happiness_ we are able to find, wherever we are able to find it, else we will die knowing nothing but duty. I would not want that for you.”

Red just stares down him, a little lost at that, hands tight by his sides.

“My brothers would gladly give you something of which you may hold…well, to be quite honest, would I believe you could allow me in your bed, I would as well. There are many ways to show acceptance, Tim.”

While his brain is trying to process _everything that Damian just told him_ , the kid gives a sharp smile, eyes taking a slow sweep of Red’s body, head to foot, and pats his bicep gently. “Consider what I have said.”

His brain still hasn’t come up with a very good reaction as Damian is turning on his heel and leaving Red in the dim.

**

Jason is diligently making a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich when Red has his shit together enough to come up from the sub-basement.

“Baby Bird,” and the guy smiles at him fondly, making his stomach do that _thing_ now that he doesn’t have twelve different other directions to turn his mind. “Making a sammie for Tim, you like strawberry or grape?”

“Strawberry, man. Grape is like a crime against jelly,” he tries for light banter, putting Dami’s little talk to the back of his mind for the time being, but _“so I can watch that ass in that suit_.” He passed it off as banter to ease the situation, but _really_ …?

Right. Red puts his back to the counter, crossing his arms over his chest unconsciously. “How does he seem to be doing?”

Jason gives a half-hearted shrug, “it’s Tim, so processing, internalizing, the usual. He’s…better when he’s got other things to focus on. Momentum just seems to give him an excuse to deflect bad shit, put it out of his mind until the mystery is solved.”

Wow, similarities much? Red has to look down since he knows he’s smirking like an asshole.

“At least he let us talk about, you know, when B went missing in time. Seems to forgive us for everything, so I’m not complaining. Nothing worse than having that guy pissed off at you.”

“Yeah?”

“I like sleeping with both eyes closed,” Jason glances over a him again, that grin lighter than Red’s seen him since they met and just makes all the planes of his face softer somehow, but still, under the surface of that mask, Red can see the toll his trials have taken. Jason Todd, this Jason Todd just like this Dick Grayson, have had too many bads that outweigh the good. And he knows, from first-hand experience that the eventual fallout from all those bads would be damaging to them both, could break them in the long run. It would be better if—and the idea hovers in the back of his mind, a possibility.

“I think it’s a Bat standard,” Red replies seriously, rolling the idea around, “to be a nasty bastard when you need to be.”

At that, Jason rolls out with a deep belly laugh, eyes crinkling in mirth. “Seriously? _Red_ , I have a whole section of know-how dedicated to being _a nasty bastard,_ and it ain’t got nothing to do with being a vigilante, you feel me?”

And…flirting again. Shit. Jason Todd, the Red Hood, should so not being flirting with him, but damn it if he—“I have absolute faith that you have volumes, man. Just, a dedicated library, right?”

And fucking _Jason_ , gets a whole different light in those eyes, “you better be careful, Baby Bird,” the taller man wields the butter knife, pointing close to his nose, “I’m pretty sure I can figure out all the catches and traps to that suit in record time.” And he licks, _licks_ the jelly off the knife while staring right into Red’s eyes before taking the first sandwich and turning away.

“Eat that so Dick doesn’t get pissed we’re over-working you…well, the boring, save the world, kind of work anyway.”

He blinks down at the second sandwich still sitting on the counter then up at Jason’s retreating back down the hallway; as if he _knows_ , the guy looks back and winks before rounding the corner.

Red’s face heats so fast he’s actually kind of worried he might pass out, but his brain does an immediate _halt_ when a whole new level of implications hit him and the idea starts to flesh out. There’s a need here to fill, something that might be just as important as winning a war. He breathes out a little, staring down the now-empty hallway with the haunted look in Jason and Dick’s eyes in the forefront of his mind. And as he is wont to do, the idea starts turning into a rudimentary plan to fix the problem takes shape, becomes _solid_. He needs the opportunity, but as far as plans go…not bad.

**

He knows that expression. It’s the same one he cultivated after his own instance of _kidnap the powerful CEO_. Odd that their experiences are lining up so similarly and yet different at the same time. At least he’s got the other Kon sitting right by him, holding on to his hand, and pulling him out of his head at intervals. Red had the Titans to worry about, moving forward to the next big bad to keep him from the backlash.

They both look up sharply when he raps on the doorframe.

“Hey.” Both hands up in a _look, not dangerous_ kind of way, “I can come back later if—“

“No,” his counterpart immediately denies, “come in. Please.”

He does, still thrown by being suited up without a domino, but well, why bother when everyone present knows who he is anyway?

“Dami said you wanted to talk,” and Tim just gives a small smile and sits down in one of the chairs around the bed.

The other Tim nods once, a jerky motion. “I need deets, Tim.”

“Red,” he replies, “so we don’t get all mixed up, you know? You can just call me Red—less complicated. So, the plan is still in stages,” ( _no, it’s not_ ), “by tomorrow morning, I’m going to have enough of a basis to pull you in. Until then, you’re going to sleep eight full hours and recover. We have three days until the big starts anyway, so you’ve got time.”

“I don’t need—“

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Red just gives him a patient look, “I was kidnapped in my world. By Ra’s, yes, but I always got myself out before crazy shit happened. The last one…it was bad. I had to do things to keep from compromising my ident. Not proud of it, but everything worked out at the end of the day, so _no_ , you’re not fine, _yes,_ you do need time, and _yes_ , you’re going to take it. No helping to save the world until you’ve had at least a night or two to cope.”

And _this guy_ , his eyes narrow dangerously, hand tightening on Kon’s, “what happened?”

“Some very bad men wanted a Wayne Enterprises product. They didn’t get it.”

“Holy shit—“

“They kidnapped me as Tim Drake, not Red. Like I said, I’ve been there.”

“How—“

“I don’t talk about it.” He cuts off that line of questioning before it even starts. “I got myself out, got back to my team, took down the bad guys. That’s all there is to say.”

But those two do some kind of couple’s mind meld thing where their eyes roll to each other without turning their heads (and it’s just fucking strange because he and his Kon do that, too, just, you know, not in the ‘that’s my boyfriend’ sort of way).

“Okay, how about just the general outline?” The other Tim tries after a long moment of silence, already laying back on the pillows. “Give me something here.”

“Hm. General info: B is still the Bat, he called me to the Cave when your Bats hit my world. I was just supposed to figure out the coordinates so they could come back. They got into the story of how _you_ supposedly died and afterwards the Insurgents won. They asked for the strategy the Titans used, so I called my team together and we went into the step-by-step, tried to give them everything we could to bring back, but,” and Red sighs a little. “The Mind Field…I had to make the sacrifice play to crack their systems, insert the virus, code on the fly. Not proud of it, but there were no other options or time.”

“Your team took on the bulk of the attack,” the other Tim’s voice is softer, a little less _I’m freaked out but rescued so…spectacularly failing to cope right now_.

“Yes. Cassie…yeah. None of them escaped without an effect. Cassie got it the worst out of everyone. Bart and Kon had to relive each other’s deaths; Raven lived through the time BB almost got torn apart by his shape shifting ability while he and Miguel got a whole lot of Trigon’s last attempt to kill her… none of it was good.”

“Cassie?”

“Wonder Girl, Cassie Sandsmark.”

“What did she have to experience?”

“…my kidnapping. Some of it. Well, I’m pretty sure she got the bulk of the bad, which sucks, really, no one—anyway, I was able to use the Mind Field as a cover to crack the main neural net hub. This time is going to be different since there are obvious anomalies here that aren’t in my world, but I have a plan mapped out on how to do it.” Since he would have to get to the Mothership this time, just going through the Mind Field isn’t going to work, won’t give him the access he needs now that these invaders are a hell of a lot more settled on Earth. Nope, he had to go big or go home.

The other guy is looking at him with eyes half-mast, settling into the data like he already knows how the plan is taking shape. Maybe he does. Counterpart after all.

Kon, however, is the next one to talk, “they all…survived?”

Red comes close to flinching but keeps himself in control, “yes. All of my people made it out. Once the virus hit, their neural fields pretty much gave out, so their flying crafts, suits, traps, all of it failed. We made it out.”

And this too thin, too broken Kon-El just suddenly has wet eyes that are wide and blinking, like he’s trying _not_ to break. “I—I couldn’t get them _out_. By the time I got there, the haze had lifted and they were just _gone_.”

Fuck. He hadn’t had the chance to see what happened to someone that just _died_ while trapped, so he immediately feels for the guy, the same ache in his chest when Dami told him over the phone the Titans hadn’t made it.

“There’s no way you _could_ have gotten to them, Kon. That’s why the Mind Field is their best weapon: it feeds off anything with a _brain_. Even if you’d have gone in after them, the field would have trapped you right along with them and you would have died too. There was no other way to save them, man. I’m—I’m sorry.” (And yes, a quick exchange with the other quickly-getting-more-tired Tim tells that guy what he needs to know; there could have been other ways, there could have been other _plans_ , but for this Kon’s peace of mind, neither of them are going to let him in on that secret).

“You were able to—“

“I had Raven and Bunker shielding me and even that was a wing and a prayer,” he counters gently, “the field registered my unconscious thoughts but not my forefront. That’s how I was able to infiltrate their systems. Even then, I was still caught in the same loop as everyone else. _I_ experienced the other’s memories too, I could just divide my consciousness to work the coding where it was needed. Without knowing what you were up against, there’s no way you could have done anything, Kon. I’m serious, man. That wasn’t your fault, and I’m glad you didn’t die with them. If they were here, they’d say the same. You’re alive now to fight.”

The super takes a shuddering breath, staring down at his hand wrapped around his Tim’s, not at all convinced, Red’s sure, but at least he knows a little more about what the hell happened, how everything went all kinds of wrong. Once this whole war thing is over and done, the fallout with these guys is going to be hell if they both lived to see it.

“To help with this save the world plan, I need you both—“ and now he has their attention, other Tim’s eyes moving but little else, “to focus on being right here, right now. You’ve both survived to this point, and,” he grins a little, “you have each other to lean on. That’s a whole lot of good…I’m not going to lie. The odds aren’t good, never seem to be really, but I’m confident. All the people that have fallen, we’re going to make sure they didn’t do it in vain.”

And Kon blinks at him then a half-smile takes over his face, “wow, man. I can see why the Titans follow _you_ , right? Go team and shit.”

The other Tim, closing his eyes, huffs out a little laugh as well, and his weight is pliant as he slips away, giving in to exhaustion.

“Yup. Usually my pom-poms are stored in my other wing pack, so you totally aren’t getting to see the full effect.”

And Kon gives in, laughing quietly, and looking down at the other Tim with genuine happiness, holding on to that hand like he's never letting go again.

Just watching, Red is struck again with the realization: they've done good today and the night isn’t even over.

**

Standing, Red leaves them to themselves, leaves Kon to cling and his counterpart to hold on, to shake, and be grateful he's alive.

Instead, Red goes down further down the hall to the Bunker, the room he was given and let's himself in, falling back against the door to just breathe, head back. He allows his mind to release the rigid hold on its processes, he just lets go.

He gets approximately eight and a half minutes before the soft knock by his head jars him out of his headspace. It's an unconscious reminder that he's got shit to do, no time to let himself sink into the what-ifs concerning one Kon-El.

Like someone is playing a joke (or a higher power helping out with a whole different plan), Dick is on the other side of the door, smiling softly down at him, cowl shoved back, tired and content.

"Hey Baby Bird, brought you some civvies." And it's a worn pair of sweats and t-shirts, obviously Dick's by the look of that old Gotham Knights logo.

"Thanks," and he opens the door to let him in, closing it so he can turn, and be grateful for something more comfortable to wear once he actually gets down to coding the whirlybirds. "Glad we got him back, man. You know-"

"We never would have known if you hadn't come, Tim.” Again, a completely different Dick Grayson, one that doesn’t cover up with jokes, one that has a rawness to his honesty. One that doesn’t have a the support system he needs. One that could be better if only—

“I…there's no words to express how much I, we, appreciate everything.”

For just a second, he stares into those eyes and finally lets out a breath. As much as it’s going to suck for him later, if he survives the up-coming _big bad_ , his mostly-formed plan to make sure this Dick Grayson is taken care of, that he will have a reason to _lose_ that look, that beat-to-shit-by-the-world vibe, is going to start right here, right now.

“The second you came to the Perch, I knew I was coming here, Dick. You weren’t going to stop me.”

The man softens a little, smiling, “You are…incredible, you know?"

And Dick, this Dick that had seen the potential in his Tim, that hadn't taken Robin, but asked it be freely given, a gift, is staring down at him with those blue, blue eyes and that fond expression with just _this_ much heat in the assessment; the contrast with the Dick Grayson he knew- this is a man that would never ask for what he needed, but a man that would just give until he had nothing left. He really is a better Batman than Red could ever be (maybe better than the other Dick could be), this Dick Grayson could make the Batman a figure of power and protection in a way Tim Drake would never, could never do.

And he must be staring with what Kon calls his calculating look because this Dick shivers slightly in the Batsuit, causing ripples in the cape over his shoulders.

"Heh, me? This from the guy that would have passed up an asset in the fight to save his world just to keep me from living through it all again." And the face he'd made in the Perch, the sacrifice for Tim’s safety, his sanity; this man would fight with his last breath. "You could tell how bad it was, couldn't you?"

And now, they're almost on top of one another, Tim looking up into that face, those eyes that hadn't had warmth, hope in too long, one that couldn't start to believe yet. And shit, the plan is pretty good one as far as it goes, as long as it changes that despair into something better.

Without needing to say anything, Dick nods gently, eyes taking in Tim's bare face like he wants to memorize everything.

"I survived. It's okay," the younger assures, tone a little hoarse. “And I’m going to do everything to make sure we all survive this.”   _I’m going to try to make sure you have something worth fighting for_. When Dick breathes deep, the Kevlar and armor meet.

And like he can't help himself, that gloved hand comes up, cups the side of Tim's face in the cool supple feel and smell of leather.

"You might be the most selfless man I've ever met," the older man confesses, leaning down just a little, so his too long hair brushes against Tim's other cheek. "I can't even begin to be amazed at how strong you are, to keep adapting, to keep moving forward. Tim-"

And now his heart is beating too hard in his chest because the air is just charged with something so _different_ than what it was moments ago; his own hand is rising before his brain can either keep up or end all processes, and he grips the back of Dick's neck, fingers sliding into the hair falling almost down to those broad shoulders.

Dick feels it too, just as strongly because the vestiges of heat start taking over the blue.

"I'm sorry in advance," and Tim can feel the breath against his mouth, "I'm sorry, but I can't—Tim, I need to just…just _once_ -"

And he’s the one that rises up just enough so the lips against his are softer than they have a right to be, the taste of _please_ right there, perfectly pressed against his own mouth, warm and inviting and utterly _perfect_ while they tilt their heads to find the right combination before Tim's mouth falls open and he swallows Dick's groan right down into his chest, sucks it into himself because this man…this Dick Grayson wants, needs so much. He's been starved of this…maybe just as much as Tim has.

And the heat and warmth and wet turns into hands and the sharp planes of body and skin. The harness is deactivated, falling into Tim's hand, then to the floor. His gauntlets and gloves dropped while they draw back for breath, and wordlessly come back for more, becoming deeper, hotter, more intense. Bare hands on his face, his neck, the first layer of body armor on the floor by the harness, Dick's cowl and cape a puddle of darkness by his feet.

Tim's hands already know where that zipper should be in the back, pulls it down even if he's half afraid of taking this too far, of getting too deep, hurting this man, hurting himself rather than doing the right thing because it’s Murphy’s Law sometimes in the plan: shit just goes the other way from where it’s supposed to. But Tim Drake, Red Robin, always tries his damnest to have a contingency plan--

"Hey kids," and the door is shoved open abruptly, Jason's voice settled in contentment.

—And it just walks into the room. The universe is apparently totally with him on this.

Tim automatically turns them, puts himself in front of Dick, the fight instinct, the _protect_ instinct because, well, _Bat_.

And Jason pauses, caught in a horrible moment of indecision, green eyes wide, taking everything in: swollen, red lips, pieces of suits discarded, the zipper down along Dick's back, and the sharp v-ee of Tim's bare chest in just the body suit.

And in those eyes, he can see it: Jason would smile and walk out, let them continue, let them find whatever it is they both need in one another; he, just like this Dick would sacrifice his own happiness for the person, the people, he loved. The people that mattered, even for those that didn't. He would fight to give them what they needed.

"Jay," and Tim's hand is shaky, rising, open, beckoning. The plan just changed, just got bigger, more important. " _Jason_."

The wealth behind it sinks into Jason Todd's bones, in his blood and viscera. This isn't the Tim Drake he's known for years, the Tim Drake he used to hold and touch and bring to completion. This man had a completely different kind of strength, a mind all his own with a set of complexities and contrasts. This man let the other Red Hood beat him and break him to be what was needed, helped the other heal the only way he knew how: sacrifice.

And the Jason he is now knows he's a bad, bad man for wanting this, for already responding to the two with the hard press against his uniform. This man isn't _theirs_. They can't just _keep_ him; intellectually, he know this, knows it with everything he is since his body rebels at the thought of this Tim Drake leaving, dying, bleeding. But none of that stops the _want_.

He's already closed the door, fallen back against it, thumbing the lock before he realizes what his body is doing ( _trapping them in, keeping others out_ ).

"Tim," and he has to swallow to try again, clearing out the obvious plea. "Say it. You have to say it."

And Dick, that _motherfucker_ , cheats, leans down with his eyes still on Jason, rolling to keep his gaze while his mouth moves over the chords of Tim's neck, mouthing the skin down to the curve of shoulder (one of Jason's favorite spots as Dick surely remembered from their own time together before the world ended).

"I want you both," and the voice is deep, sinking into the two Bats like a benediction. "Not him, not the other Dick. I want _you_ , who you are, who I see right in front of me. God help me, but I do." And Tim is just breathing harder with the heat of those green eyes taking him in, every inch. Dick's hand slides around his hip, mouth working his throat, licking him, sucking, and finding the zipper right at his ribs to drag it down the rest of the way below his belly button so the under shorts are black against the curve of hip.

"I can't make promises after everything," is his way of giving these two an out, to let them stop if they know where he stands. "But for tonight, I want you both for the right reasons. For you, not the two men I left behind."

And _that_ is apparently what Jason Todd wants to hear. Before he even realizes he's moved, he's across the room with two hands full of Baby Bird, and the taste of Tim Drake is better than he originally imagined, distinct differences between their Tim and this one is the obvious undertone of coffee and blood, the tinges of metal. And Jason is just so hungry for it, tongue sweeping around that mouth, swallowing the noises of capitulation with burning need.

He pulls away from Tim's mouth to breathe, and one of those smaller, dexterous hands tilt his chin up slightly so—he and Dick are close, both pressing into Tim.

"Big Bird," he can feel Dick breathing hard against Tim's back.

"Little Wing," and there, in that undercurrent, is also what he needs to hear. Dick still _wants_ him, maybe never stopped. And Jason's eyes are half-mast as he closes the distance over Tim's shoulder and just, God. _God_.

Dick tastes the same, still has soft lips and an agile tongue. Still makes him _fucking need_. One hand on Tim's neck, the other comes to the back of Dick's and pulls him closer, turning him to the right angle so he can get with the program.

Sliding out from between the two, Tim takes advantage of the distraction to slip behind Dick and pull the zipper in back down to his ass, pushing the reinforced Batsuit off his shoulders. Without breaking the kiss with Jason, Dick pulls his arms out and uses both hands to cup Jason's face in his palms. His body coming into full awareness with visceral memory since it’s _Jason_ and it had been so long, too long.

Tim moves behind Jason next, sliding his hands between their bodies to find the next zipper and pull. His hands flit inside, pulling the reinforced suit back over the shoulders, Jason rolling with it, arms back so his shoulders and chest can be bare under their gazes, under their hands.

"Boots," is Tim's voice behind Jason because, yeah, Batsuits are a bitch when all you want to do is get naked.

In the middle, Jason gets hold of both, pretty much dragging them to the bed, but it's Tim that shoves them down, kneeling to pull off both pairs so the two can shove reinforced material down their legs while he pulls off his own and stands. The two are on him before he gets fully vertical, Dick is at his mouth while Jason gets his body suit down to his waist…and stills.

Jason sucks in a choking breath.

 _Fuck_. He remembers immediately, eyes flying open, and Dick pulls back in question, staring at the suddenly blank expression.

"I, uh, can wear a shirt," Tim's eyes veer away from Dick's intense gaze, already stepping one foot out from between them. Jason's hand on his biceps stops him cold, a hard, almost brutal hold. _Fuck. Okay, contingency._

"Who. Did. This?" And the fingers of the other hand are so gentle in contrast, tracing the horrible array of scars from his little vacay with the White Triad.

"I," he swallows, flinching when Dick leans around him, pressing their chests together to look at what Jason’s seeing. He, too, stills, holding his breath a little. "I don't talk about it."

"Your Bats-?"

"Don't know," he answers quickly. "I was kidnapped once, as Tim Drake. Not as Red Robin. It's…a long story." And yeah, Bats had scars, par for the vigilante course. But, his back is a mass of white lines and tissue damage from being whipped and burned and, you know, _tortured_ for days. Most of them were probably faded with time, but-.

"I should-" _go, put on a shirt, plan to save your world, smack my head off the wall for forgetting_ _and possibly losing this chance but you two **stay here and continue**_. _Seriously, you both need it. Remember what you had together, be there for one another._

That hard hand turns him, Jason's expression fierce and those eyes predatory. He fists a hand in Tim's hair, and the kiss is harder, full of teeth and biting and licking. It literally takes Tim’s breath away with the want and need right under the surface.

_Game on._

Dick's hands push the rest of his suit down his legs, and that _mouth_ starts moving over the skin of his back, tracing the white lines with lips and tongue, warm and wet and just _fuck, why would he **do** that?_

He pulls back, gasping, eyes wide at the touch, how sensitive and…God it had been so long, too long since he let himself have and be had. But Tim just leans in, both hands in Jason’s hair to pull him down, latching on the pulse in Jason's neck, biting, sucking, licking, rolling the taste around, listening to the noises, feeling the vibrations in his own chest.

His leg is tapped, and the last of his clothes come off, leaving Tim bare in front of these two while his hands roam the planes of Jason's body, fingering the hips, sliding in the shorts for skin and the heat.

Dick takes his arm, turns him again, mouth on his neck while Jason takes the other side, pressing him between them and the heat, the slide of skin too much to hold back gasps, noises coming from deep in his chest because _God_ …

His hands are on them both, gripping Jason's hip, running up Dick's chest to thumb the nipples hard.

"Bed, no clothes. Now." He demands pushing at them both.

The low, deep laughter mixed with lust makes him shiver, his eyes take in the arch of Dick's back when he pulls the under armor over his head and off. Then there is the lean, sinewy strength of Jason's abdomen as he does the same. His mouth waters when they turn in tandem, sly grins over their shoulders and doing exactly what he wants, crawling over the covers to watch him.

"Christ, how you move, Baby Bird," Jason whispered.

"Keep watching," Tim replies, moving them to lie next to one another so he can kneel between them, hands starting on a leg each, "I'm going to give you a show."

**

Much later, Tim is already finished planning Phase II, accessing the Mothership, and re-encoding the virus. Phase III is the cleanup once shit gets real, or that the invaders are vulnerable without their neural net and tech. He takes a moment to look over at the two men in the bed, and Jason looks almost boyish in his sleep with the former deep lines in his face relaxed; behind him, Dick has an arm around his waist hand gently on his chest, pressing tightly against his back. The two look so utterly peaceful, snuggling together closely, like they should always have been side-by-side, should have been all along. The lines and planes of their bodies are perfectly aligned as if they hadn't had a good night sleep in a long time. Pressed against one another, they’re hitting some hard REM, and it shows.

With a moment of indecision and a worse moment of heartache, Tim realizes he's done well in bringing the plan to fruition. Giving himself over allowed him to bring those two back together, so when he has to return to his own world (or dies, worst case scenario), at least they'll have one another again since the two just had a bad case of Bat stubborn asshole and refused to take what they needed to be happy (thanks for the advice, Dami). It would be fine. He couldn’t do much for them, but at least, he could give them an excuse to have each other.

In his usual fashion, the plan always comes together.

**

He gently closes the door when his internal clock tells him the sun will be up soon, not even thinking of waking the two. In a few days, they'd be in for the fight of their lives, so they'd need as much sleep as possible ( _damn, he's sore_ ) and Tim goes down to the kitchen with his coffee and laptop, searching through cabinets until he finds a dusty relic in the back.

The command center of the Bunker is empty this early, so he uses the filtered water to wipe off the machine and make a heavenly pot while setting up his laptop and going from the big computer to his own, crunching numbers, comparing his results from the Insurgent's system and finally setting up the whirlybirds and disruptors for recalibration.

O is the first one up, her wheels silent.

"Is that _coffee_?" She whispers, eyes wide.

Tim laughs, standing, stretching before he moves to pour her a mug full.

"You are my new hero," she claims as she accepts the mug and starts drinking immediately, moaning in pleasure at the first taste.

"If you're a good Oracle and check my calibrations, I'll give you a second cup. Maybe a third." He grins at her while they both look back to his work and drink coffee.

Dami is next, scrubbing a hand down his face as he comes in, pausing with the Bat stillness before also whispering, "Coffee?"

Tim waves a hand toward the pot while deep in conversation and tweaking code. He glances over in time to see the genuine happiness on Dami's face after the first sip and smiles to himself.

With O delving into his code, he finally stands to pour her another mug full and refill Dami's (grinning at the absurdly grateful look) and fills two mugs with the last of the pot. He promptly puts on another.

"All right, review the codes while I play hero," he carries the mugs down the long hallway, balancing all three when he turns the corner, coming to the door.

Soft talking on the other side, and he uses his fingertips to turn the knob.

Dick and Jason are sitting up, ready to fight.

"Just me," he soothes, using a foot to shut the door.

"Is that _coffee_?" Jason breathes, eyes wide; Dick’s brows are almost into his hairline.

His mug goes down on the metal desk, Tim hums, carrying the other two over. Both Bats accept, first drink taken immediately.

"I expect proper hero worship for remembering to bring some," he deadpans, pulling up the chair beside the bed to sit and drink his own.

Jason levels him with a dirty grin, "climb back in this bed, Baby Bird. Dick and I would be happy to show you the meaning of the word."

Tim grins back, "Dami and Babs are up. Besides, I need to go check on Kon and your Tim soon. But, you're both such good heroes, I thought you deserved coffee."

Dick chuffs a genuine laugh coming from deep in his chest. "Hear that, Little Wing? _Good_ not mind-blowing. We're going to have to do better than that."

Jason's arm slides around Dick's ribs, his eyes going darker as he leans down against the side of Dick's neck. And just… _fuck_. Tim swallows hard, eyes for the two of them being like this, just…wow.

"We can definitely do better Big Wing," and that deep voice already starts Tim's pulse kicking.

"I'm going to be such a bad, bad man with you two," he admits huskily. "But we're not going to traumatize anyone. Well, yet."

"C'mere," Dick soothes, "we'll make it fast, then shower and check on everyone, okay? You can go back to being this war-staging guru and we’ll leave you long enough to make _plans_."

And the sheet is pulled away, Dick's morning erection standing up proudly against his body that Tim draws in a deep breath, eyes already falling half-mast.

His eyes on Tim, Jason turns Dick's face and they're kissing, tongues moving, soft noises, gentle touch, and just... He’s not made of _stone_.

Without thinking too hard, Tim has the empty mugs out of their hands, putting them on the table and locking the door before he comes back.

"I am _such_ a bad man," he says more to himself while stripping the shirt over his head and joining the two on the bed. But, dammit if the plan isn’t already working.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… Tim’s got to be like that. He can do whatever he needs to as long as it fits the plan. I, on purpose, didn’t go into a lot of detail with the nakey stuff because the Tim in the original Fracture is so not there yet, so neither am I, I think? I don’t know. Anyway, Arkeadia and I agreed that this isn’t going to be a stand-alone or anything, but I have a part III and possibly an Epilogue planned in my head, so there’s that. Again, thank-you for comments and kudos on this little side track. Once I’m done, or maybe sooner, the next chapter of Fracture will get some meat on the bones.


	5. Destroyed III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ending of the short but sweet 'Destroyed' saga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy. Balls. This thing *whew.* Arkeadia deserves a bouquet of flowers and chocolates for putting up with my nonsense and being the best Ra’s ever. His dialogue and some of the others from that scene is so from her. Meanwhile, some of your other suggestions went into making this and seriously, this thing is over twenty pages, and my brain pan just needs to be empty. Crap. I feel a little beat-up after this, so no, I didn’t beta it very well and there’s probably a ton of mistakes and alot of little questions that could still be answered. Sorry but meh OVER TWENTY PAGES. One hell of a one shot, right? However, prepare for ass-kicking, feels, ass-kicking, and more feels. That’s about how it’s going to go.

Hell yeah.

At the meeting point, Red and the Bats are tight for this. T and O are already warming up, connecting with forces in place over the globe. Ra's and his people are on the way, Lantern Corps decided in a vote to throw their lot in with Earth so hella more fighters than he counted on (win, thanks Hal) and are already dividing themselves to the hot spots.

In less than an hour, the other forces stationed in New York would be arriving and the portal to his world would open. Red keeps himself carefully optimistic on the off chance some of the more suicidal groups would show, but they aren't in the main plan.

Before go-time, he's already prepping, double checking his wrist computer, his wing pack, making sure he's stocked to the nines (he’d already made sure Dick, Dami, and Jay’s belts were already full, natch), and the whirlybirds for the fighters are laid out in the back of the unassuming van. The Bats would start handing them out when the forced started showing up.

When he finally takes a step back, Dick is there to touch the back of his neck, looking down.

The last two days have been…a mix of terrible and incredible. He's scoped out the remains of Gotham and even come to the Big (burnt out) Apple to get readings as close to the Mothership as he dared only to come back to the Bunker and be attacked by the worried group. It was, to say the least _odd_ ; these people had experienced the end of their world, had their own family connections, and were still concerned enough to mass attack him with hugs and demands if he had any injuries, faced any aliens, tripped into any other dimensions, yada yada (well, if the guy saving _your_ world vanished before the saving part, wouldn't you be worried?).

And it was so strange because he'd been coming and going without this for a long time, even as the first kind of Robin when he was sent off to train and later Jean Paul had the mask, hell even after Bruce came back. Sure, they worked together (well when they did, great detecting minds and whatever) but after he took on the new role, stayed away, kept to the Tower and the Perch, so the concern became an afterthought, no big deal. Having it shoved more or less in his face is a little uncomfortable and bittersweet at the same time. Like his counterpart, he finds himself clenching Dick's cape and Jay's jacket, laughing a little in Dami's shoulder when they look so fucking _relieved_ he’s back.

The whirlybirds ready, Vic promised he'd have another three thousand at least by go-time, already calibrated and a few thousand disruptors. The ones he has are ready, the plans mapped out, calculated forced divided depending on factors of alien population and rank of hovering death ship (the other him was pretty impressed with the scale, too), he's left catching T up on everything to coordinate and exploring the hidden undergrounds of _holy shit Gotham!_ For anything else they could use (and no, since they all have their eyes on him now, he's barely gone to the bathroom by himself. All of you, _take a pill_ ).

In between work and prep and answering his counterpart's numerous questions about his life and events that lead to where he is today, Jason and Dick snag him out of the hallway or attack when they're in the kitchen alone, steal with him downstairs to "check" on the B-ride (or to be stripped down and pushed against it or straddling Dick's lap inside it with Jason watching, waiting for his turn in the passenger seat: also hot. Jason bet he wouldn't have been able to squeeze between the wheel and Dick, _sucker_ ).

Now, he’s got to trust their skills and hope they all survive. Odds are with them if the plans are as solid as he calculates, and, well, if he’s as good at cracking alien code as he was last time.

He finally breathes, everything as ready as he can make it. Dick and Jason talk softly to him while Dami makes a final check.

“We have faith in you, you know,” Jason is saying, holding the helmet in one hand, the disc on his chest glowing lazily.

Red gives him a grim smile, “me too. This is going to go well. Causalities are going to be unavoidable, so no unnecessary chances, okay? Stick to the plans.”

The Batman, cowled and ready to rock, leans down, presses their mouths together, a quick swipe of his tongue inside Red’s mouth, just a hint of taste. For consistency, he repeats the process with Hood.

“For good luck.” And Red can imagine him winking behind the lenses.

Dami makes a noise in the back of his throat, “you two have already corrupted him enough. Red, make these two toe the line.”

“Baby Bat, like I’d give them a free pass for just about anything,” and Red grins over at him, but Dami clearly hesitates, domino in hand. “You, too, you know.”

“…”

“What is it?” Red moves away from the older Bats, coming to stand in front of a version of himself because _that costume_.

Quietly, the younger kid just comes out with, “Brother…Not Baby Bat.”

His heart gives a hard little beat and Red raises a gloved hand to Dami’s neck, thumb rubbing across his pulse. “I get it, little brother. We’re gonna be tight for this, right?”

And the kid chuffs a laugh, his eyes brighter than before, “since you have a knack for not dying, I suppose so.”

**

Whoa. Just, _whoa_.

Unexpected.

The utter mass of heroes coming through that portal is just, again, _whoa_. The Bats from his world were among the first out, obviously looking through the crowd of this world’s gathered fighters looking for…well, whatever, probably gauging their surroundings, making plans of their own because, _Bats_. In a crazy twist, he didn’t expect them to come, so the plan changes with the mass ton of skill sets that are still coming through that portal.

And then—

“It’s BIRDY! Holy SHIT! Hey **_BIRDY_**!” A shrill voice makes him wince internally because _The Suicide Squad?_ Whose idea was it to…? His eyes dart to his world’s B and Superman looking at one another over the group of villains. And surprise, surprise, Red Arrow is giving him a wave from over by Kori and the other world Jason Todd, already suited up with a lot more guns than normal.

_Fantastic…hm, actually, this could be promising. Very much so._

Deadshot, Harley Quinn, Enchantress, Nightshade, Rick Flag, Killer Crock, El Diablo, and Slipknot (hm, Boomerang is suspiciously absent, small miracles since _that guy_ ) are all in a group that is pointedly given space by the still climbing through Green Lantern corps from his world and _oh hey, All Stars, Doom Patrol, Dark Stars, **and** the Justice Society?_ Wow, not enough hot dogs for everyone.

“Harley,” he greets while keeping an eye on the slowly appearing heroes from around this world as well, “nice you guys could make it to the party. We will totes have a piñata later.”

She laughs that high-pitched, half- _nuts_ (completely nuts) sound, “it’s a _fight_ , Birdy! We couldn’t just sit it out!”

“Good to know. Actually, I’m glad you’re here. I can work with your brand of crazy. Actually, I’m pretty damn sure I know exactly where you can unleash it.”

Deadshot just gives him a raised brow, and Red grins back at him, wrist computer already raised to project a map of New York. “Once the fighting starts, I need all of you concentrated here.” Now all of them are leaning forward, eyes on the map. “And you can just tear into some alien assholes to your little hearts’ desires. Seriously, have fun. Don’t die, don’t kill any of our allies, but put some _feeling_ into your rage.”

“You mean,” El Diablo states for the record, “we can kill them? Like, for real? No getting more time for it?”

“Absolutely. Watch the mind powers and stuff, but yeah, I give you total permission _this one time_ for all of you to do what you do best against these guys. Wait for the signal, though. I sure as hell don’t need anyone tipping them off before everything is in place.”

“Fucking. **_Sweet_**.” Rick Flag says it all right there.

Red just waves them away after giving them some comms; he takes a second to appreciate the other Bats handing out his tech where they can, re-setting comms to different frequencies depending on where Red’s going to have them. Masses are already flying out to take point in the other four locations, waving as they take off.

“Red!” Cyborg from his world breaks off from the rest of the other world JLA.

Red shakes the offered hand, “thanks for coming, man. Seriously, I didn’t expect the turnout.”

“Hey, who’s going to miss a good party like _this_? We get to break another world that _isn’t_ ours?” Well, Red hadn’t considered that, but okay.  “ _Especially_ when you send out such great invites,” the guy laughs a little, “I got your tech from the old files, made the discs so our guys are good. The inhibitors too. The Titans have extras to hand out to the fighters here.” Cyborg pulls a mini computer out of his chest compartment, “here. All of them are on the same network connection, so you can program the mass of them from this unit.”

His eyes are enormous behind the lenses because his team and _holy shit more tech_ , “the Titans…?” He takes the computer, already working his magic while listening.

Cyborg hums a little, “oh yeah. They…are very not happy, but they should be coming through soon. BB is going to give you the ass-chewing of your life, dude. Just wait for it.”

 _Shit, they were supposed to stay at home and be safe_. Red rubs the back of his neck, an old twitch, and gets back to work.

“Like they wouldn’t show for you, Red. C’mon, they’re your _team_ , right?” And Vic grins at him when he doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah, yeah, should have known better, right?”

“Yup. Oh hey, there’s me. I’m gonna go tell that guy he’s handsome as hell. See you at the brief.” And the guy is already walking away to his counterpart.

 _Done_. He taps his comm, “T? Our visiting fighters have my tech. I’m already re-coding so we should be good to go. Seems like my team has spares, so winning.”

“I’d say,” his counterpart says over his ear while the portal spits out more people and now he’s watching out for it. “We’ve got both sets of Lantern Corps dividing up.”

“Okay, in a minute I’m going to start with the layout. I’ll need the mass comm for it then we can divide the signals by sections and ground/air forces.”

“On it.”

“O?”

“Red.”

“You’ve got divisions one and two. I want to know how they hold up around the secondary ships. T will take three and four. I’ll maintain us here as well as I can before Phase II. Then, I’ll need you two to split up the work load.”

“Acknowledged.”

 _Breathe_. He does, and…Kon, his Kon is carrying a box under his arm when he comes through. Bart, Cassie, Rave, Gar, and Miguel riding through that portal like they own it.

He stands with his whole body tight since he’s happy and not so much to see them.

Bart just zips right up, throwing both arms around him. “Dudeohmygodwhatthehellwereyoueven _thinking_ tryingtomakeus-“

“KF,” he laughs a little, “I can only _hear so fast_ , man.”

And the look in Bart Allen’s eyes is very _you are so going to get it_ , “oh, Mr. ‘Let the Titans chill on Earth while I’m possibly going to die _in another universe_.’ Seriously?! You, sir, are an ass hat.”

“He’s got a point,” Kon says mildly, quirking a brow at him.

“As if we’d just leave you hanging.” BB just looks insulted even though he’s grinning.

Raven gives a harrumph, looking generally unimpressed.

Miguel, however, snaps him up in a bone-crushing hug (normal, good to see you too, man). Cassie cuffs him lightly on the back of the head.

“All right, all right, my bad. You guys…really didn’t need another run at this whole thing, right? Pretty sure I already said that.”

“We are your team, you fool,” Raven snipes, “it is our right to be at your back.”

And Red…Red just looks around at them, blinking behind his domino. He clears his throat a little, “uh…yeah. Thanks for coming then, guys. Glad you could make it to the killer party of the year.”

Laughter from all sides, and T breaks it up. “Red. Comms synchronized. Give ‘em a roaring ‘hey, try not to die’ speech, okay?”

“You got it, T.”

He gives a wave to the Titans and makes his way to the van, watching his Kon and Bart hand over the boxes to this world’s Batman, Hood, and Robin. Red just catches the back door and vaults himself on top to be seen.

“All right, people,” he starts, his comm transmitting to the fliers and fighters on their way to the other four districts as well as the huge mass congregating around him. Silence falls over the huge crowd, people moving in closer to look up at him, regular humans, metas, aliens, superheroes, villains, from this world and from his. All of them gathered for a singular purpose: to save the world. And the plan is going to get them through this.

“For all of you from this world, welcome. Those of you from the other dimension, thanks for joining the effort. We all know the reason we’re here. The invading aliens to this world have every intent to keep it, to kill off the rest of the inhabitants, and make it their own. We’re going to stop them.” Quickly, he outlines Phase I of the plan, how the gathering should divide themselves in New York City around the floating Mothership, what the Insurgent’s strength are, what their weaknesses are, and how to fight them. He warns everyone to take a disc and a handful of devices to break their tech until he can get the virus implanted.

“Now, we know where we stand.” He finishes off, “stick with the plan, be smart, don’t take chances, and maybe we’ll go home at the end of the day. Questions?”

The lower chattering starts up rather than be directed toward him. “Good. Maintain communications throughout the fight. In twenty minutes, I’ll take the first wave of ground and air forces.” He jumps down to stand beside this world’s Bats, taking a small measure of comfort in the Batman and Red Hood’s hands on his back where no one else can see.

And just when he gets the feeling, the anticipating, shit goes down over the active comm system between him and the first wave:

“Ah, Detective,” Red almost groans as Ra’s voice draws a few gazes around the group, looking for the source. “I hope you are _happy_ to see me.”

Now catching sight of the impressively armored Ra’s Al Ghul and a _fuck_ ton of assassins at his back, and _wow, where were all these guys when we busted in the first time?_

Just the Bats, and a few more forces could hear them. He didn’t even want to know how T was taking this right now. “Ra’s, glad you could find your way out of the caves.”

And well, the guy looks a hell of a lot better than he had a few days ago, more powerful, healthy. “Detective,” he purrs in a low voice and, _holy shit, this world’s Hood already has his guns out_. “How could I possibly miss an opportunity to be…with _you_ again?”

Ew and ick. The two Ra’s really needed to have a meeting on how _not_ to be creepers. Seriously.

Red sighs a little when he feels more than sees Red Hood finger the .45s in his holsters. “Keep your mind out of the gutter because, world war here, Ra’s.”

And a sly, white smile cuts across the immortal’s face, before he actually tsks at Red, “now, Detective, once the work is complete, there is always time for _play_.”

And Red Arrow gets this _expression_ on his face.

“I’m sure our definitions of play differ…greatly.”

A low laugh in his ear and _oh God he is going to need to take a bath in bleach, forever._

“After our battle is won, I could take such great _pleasure_ in showing you as many definitions of the word as eight hundred years have taught me. Shall we plan to meet afterwards?”

He closes his eyes behind the domino, counting to ten. “Fighting a _war_ here, Ra’s. Massive effort.”

“Terribly sorry,” hell no he’s not, Red can hear it in his tone, “Am I...distracting you? I wouldn't want to begin my part of the invasion... _prematurely_ as it were. I do after all have so many more hands to account for than your little _Bat-clan_.” Those arms sweep out to motion to the massive ninja squad.

Sigh, now Batman is working his fists like he’s got them around the immortal’s neck. “You know, as informative as this is (not), you are really asking me to take a pause in a massive world war attempt to deal with your brand of immortal _crazy_. Seriously, if you liked being beaten up so much, why not just ask when I'm a little less busy here.”

“If you haven't enough time to dedicate _handling_ me properly, Detective, you need only say so. I am patient enough to wait for more _accommodating_ circumstances.”

Now the Bats from his world are moving through the crowd, coming closer to them because, _fucking Ra’s_.

“I hope your patience extends to _never_. I already have an immortal _pain in my ass_ waiting in my own world to be thwarted next Wednesday. He’s already penciled in.”

“At least my opposition is worthy. Though given that you have come to visit, I do not see why he cannot do the same so we might _share_ you upon occasion.”

And that’s Damian, both of them, facepalming, while Red’s cheeks heat up around the domino, and Red Hood behind him is growling low in his chest.

“Wow, no. No and a whole lot of _no_. You’ll get the call when it’s ninja time, until then, please, try to make an attempt at not being totally creepy. I hear Wonder Woman has a thing with kicking people’s balls in their throats. Just a warning.” He taps the comm, “T, change Ra’s frequency to _desperate_ and _pathetic_.”

“Done.” His counterpart growls.

“Don’t worry, after this, you are going to have the time of your life siccing half the world’s superheroes on him. Just keep that in mind.”

“You have no idea the _plans_ I already have.”

“I can imagine.”

Hood is already all kinds of on top of that, “T, you don’t even _speak_ to him without one of us. Am I one hundred fucking _percent_ understood on that shit?”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it, Hood. Take a pill.” And his counterpart sounds a whole lot of pouty.

“Reminded me to have the Titans clue you into some of our Wednesday protocols before we leave. Just in case.” Red observes mildly as his world’s Bat finally make their way to stand in front of him, also looking slightly creeped out. Good, now they know what _he_ deals with.

The Batman behind him manages, “Red, we won't speak of this now because I'm too busy to fully process it, but we will speak of it. That shit is going to _happen_.” And, yup, now the Bats facing him are turning to look at the Robin, Red Hood, and Batman really close to his back.

“Understood,” he replies, turning slightly over his shoulder. But to the ones in front of him, “glad you could all make it. You’re with the first wave.” And his eyes pick out discs on all of them, more than one level of pockets on new utility belts, more armor and reinforced outer wear, more weapons because, well _Bats._ Still, he’s happy to see they’ve got more tech.

Nightwing is still turning slightly to keep looking at the two behind him, “Red. Good to see you’re okay.”

And _what now_? “Prepping for a major world effort, N. Good to go.”

The Batman from this world lays a hand on his shoulder, “your Red Robin has been invaluable in this effort,” he says in that growly tone (one that is a little similar to the one he used when he was touching—whoa, not the time for that).

The other Batman gives a slight nod and the whiteout lenses fall on him, “Red is one of the best our world has to offer.”

If he wasn’t schooled in the art of _Bat reactions_ , he would have done a double-take along with scanned them completely for just in case…

“We can see why,” the Red Hood behind him draws out through the synths. “Kid’s got a whole lot of _talent_.”

Now, he wants to facepalm. “Thanks, Hood. I do what I do _best_.” Which is layman’s terms for _shut the hell up, man_.

“Ten minutes and the first wave is out.” T interrupts and _thank fuck for the calvary_.

Red taps his comm, “acknowledged. Almost go-time, people. First wave line up.” He gives a glance over both shoulders and down to the older Robin glaring at his shorter, usually yappier, counterpart. “You three ready for this?”

He get a whole lot of grins back because _oh yeah, the totally are_ and the Titans are throwing him waves from over the crowd as people start moving to line up. And fuck, now his stomach is tight with anticipation, with the _fight_ , his brain takes on a whole new level of planning and contingencies.

“We’re with you,” the Batman at his back squeezes his shoulder a little and the hand just suddenly patting his ass is Hood throwing in his lot with that. Robin likewise reaches out to grip his forearm, and it’s a crazy thing that he smiles like an idiot at them before possibly riding off into a horrible death-filled battlefield. But hey, they’re smiling back at him just as wide, and when he moves, the three of them move like a team behind him.

**

“Mind Field triggered, we’ve got Bats in there!” And he knows the cadence of both Dick Grayson’s voices to tell Nightwing is yelling for his Red Hood and Robin in the background while the other Kon reports. _Fuck_.

He glides over the mass majority of fighting, his plan interrupted by the familiar boundaries he remembers vividly passing through in their own San Francisco less than a year before this. The trigger has been activated by the faintly glowing blue lines at odd intervals. He lands less than a few feet from Nightwing, staring into his own definition of hell rather than the massive fighting going on around them.  And Red stutters, white hot panic lances through him, drowning out the constant noise through the multi-wave comm because he knows what he has to do.

Nightwing just stares at the hazy boundaries, mouth open to yell for Jason, for Dami, again, and he's… Lost.

Red forces his hands to work, to pull the grapple, to pull the line out with jerky movements, to tie it around his waist while his heartbeat pounds in his ears and he steps up beside Nightwing, his Dick Grayson and shoves the other end at his chest.

"When I tug, pull us out. Don't go in or we're all _dead_."

And he refuses to give himself any more time to be afraid, to pause, to stop, to look at Dick while he's talking, also scared of the unknown. And good, it’s fine. Red knows all about it, and he knows some things are worth fearing. Instead of thinking too hard, he takes a page out of Dick's own vigilante handbook, turns, and leaps.

**

And Jason Todd is choking on his own blood, hands that don't feel as big as his pressed against his throat to try and stop his life's blood from pouring out, hot through the gauntlets.

The Red Hood _(him, what the fuck, how…_ ) standing over him with the blade glinting in the night, dark splash of shadow on the razor's edge.

"-all you'll ever be, Replacement. You think they give _a fuck_ about you? You think they love you? Want you? You’re supposed to be the _smart one_ , the detective. Haven’t figured it out though, have you? Fuck, I almost feel _sorry_ for your stupid ass.” And he’s got pellets in his hand, just needs Red Hood closer. “Cause here’s the truth, you little shit, so listen up. To them, the Bat, you're just _cannon fodder_. That's it. Just another meat bag against the baddies. And when you're used up, they'll replace you too."

And like the thought is his own head, the words in Red Robin’s younger voice beat around in his skull like a curse: ' _you were my Robin. Jason. Dick was Gotham’s, Batman’s, but **you** , you were mine. Do what you have to, make it right_.' The pellets fall out of his limp hand.

And he chokes again, bleeding out in degrees, but fucking dammit, the feeling, the satisfaction that he’s doing _the right thing_ by letting Jason Todd, the former Robin, the new Red Hood, beat the ever-loving _shit_ out of him, making every attempt to end his life, a fifteen year old kid, is right there in this moment.

The landscape around him alters again, making him almost puke until his eyes clear and the room is small, swaying in a way that he's not surprised, his body automatically compensating. He's been here a while. Arms fastened over his head to an I-beam in the ships structure, and the pain like fire burns from everywhere at the smallest movement.

The dark motherfucker in front of him is grinning.

"Meester Wayne. We are beginning to run out of patience with you."

The strike takes Jason by surprise, not Tim. And metal cuts further into the already raw meat of his back, stabbing deeper, bleeding him in degrees. Not him, but Tim, Tim cries out because: ' _do what any normal person would do_.' Flicker of eyes to the watchful camera lens in the corner.

And days have made it worse, his spleen long gone to hunt for B and the inevitable effect from lowered immunities are setting in. He already knows what's happening: sepsis. Time is ticking but there are children held captive, being taken to be sold off like cattle. He won't leave them, _he can't_. He has to figure out a way to save them all, he has to--

And the blows are continuous, a never-ending slope of pain and more pain. He can't feel the blood anymore, can't feel his once white shirt sticking to the wounds now.

A jump in time and they're holding him down across the dirty metal table in that room, holding up the red iron in front of his eyes before the collar is grabbed, ripped, and the iron laid across his shoulder blades with intent.

And there's no thought now, just screaming. Tim might not have died here, but while his voice echoes with the kid’s, Jason Todd gets pretty fucking worried _he_ might.

**

Robin vomits when the ground changes again from the torture room, throwing him around. He has no time to recover, to shake; instead, he's thrown, airborne and his back breaks glass, shards entering his view like glittering rain.

He sees _himself_ standing, straight backed, sneering, spitting insults at Drake. The him in this moment is still angry, still wants his predecessor to acknowledge him. The Drake in this moment is bloody but (frighteningly) not putting all of his effort into the fight, rather the pain in his chest is like a knife, his only family, only lifeline in this world, his identity, his very self, ripped away by this kid, the kid that knows nothing of _sacrifice_ , of doing the right thing, of fulfilling a _need_. And maybe…maybe the kid, this Damian Wayne is right, maybe he is only a _thing_ like a chair, a carpet, a fork, a _knife_ since he can be turned away so easily, his cape taken away like he’d never done anything to _earn_ that R…

And then the change again, the world of fire and blood in which Damian Wayne was resurrected. The gloved hand holds out the disc with the R to the child who came back, fully aware he is giving it up of his own free will this time around. He will not let this be taken, but the act will finally be of his own choosing.

And in the depths of his mind, the voice is deep, dark with intent, ' _never again. For either of them. Anything I have to do to keep them from dying again. They call, I'll come._ '

And the shift again, sitting down, Robin is staring at hands, palms too big to be his own. In one is the Glock .45 that his dad used to try and defend himself from Captain Boomerang. The magazine is full, but it only takes one, doesn't it?

The not-his hands pull back the hammer, thumb the safety off, and to Robin's horror, the gun lifts easily, so easy. The barrel is nestled just in his peripheral, perfectly in front of his ear. And the weight in the mind, the body, lifts in a terrible release with the action. He can feel his eyes getting hot but he feels the smile cutting across the face because _he can finally do something fucking right_. And the thought echoes, it resonates.

And then horror fills Robin because the forefinger tightens-

' _Dick's ringtone_ ' the voice could be in Robin's own mind if the voice hadn't been Drake's. The Brady Bunch theme belts out from beside him and for a sick moment, Robin doesn't think he will-. The gun stays where it has the right place, the other hand thumbing to answer it, press against the other ear.

"Timmy, hey little brother…"

And the words are lost in the landscape, just the cadence of Dick's voice in a smooth rhythm, but it has been some time before the arm collapses down, bringing the gun with it, the metal hitting the floor with a sharp sound and the breath is caught in his throat, choking him while his eyes spill over.

"Tim? Tim?! Answer me. Tim, you're scaring me."

The voice is Drake but not, "I'm fine, Dick. I'm fine."

"The hell you are," and the fuzzy quality is lifting enough that Robin can hear the sound of a car door, an engine, realize Dick has the speaker phone is on ‘ _is he in New York? The ‘Haven? Don’t come here, please Dick don’t come here_. _Just hang up because I can’t do this while—_ ’

"Talk to me Tim, just keep talking."

But it fades again and Robin is looking down at the same gun, the same too-big hands. The forearms are thicker, more scarred, this Drake is a bit older. Night has fallen, only a sliver of moonlight through the window, and the sick feeling churning isn't in the man. It's in Robin because the gun is already raising and the voices echoing in his head isn't Drake; it's _his own_.

'—tt—. When are you going _to get it_? How much more obvious do they need to be for your simple mind to comprehend? **You do not belong here,** in fact, Drake, did you ever? You, the one Father didn’t chose, the one thrust upon him, a burden. It will be fine as _I_ am Robin now, I have taken my rightful place at the Batman's side. They do not need to pretend you are part of this family any longer and neither should _you_.'

Dick heard it all and said…nothing, going back to pulling his gloves on to prepare to be the Bat for another night while B was out of the city to get more superheroes for BI, running his recruitment speech. _And his fucking “ **brother”** said nothing, just let it be. Good thing the domino was hiding how hot and heavy his eyes were._

And this time, no one is going to call. There is no one. ‘ _Damian is right. He isn’t a Bat anymore, never really was. Dick, Bruce, O, Alfred, none of them argued with any of it because Damian and Jason were right all along. Fuck, he hadn’t realized, hadn’t wanted to believe, but it’s all right in front of his face now, isn’t it?’_

There are no tears this time as it isn't necessary. Why bother? There is no one left to mourn-

The wall to the stagnant apartment in Gotham caves in abruptly and Kon, _Conner_ bursts through, staring at the picture, his former teammate holding a gun to his head, the gun that didn't save his Dad but would take him out of the game; fitting.

"Put it down, man," Kon says gently, moving slowly, and Robin just stares at the expression on Kon’s face, the fear. And Robin’s heart beats with hope since the clone is Drake best friend, of course he will drop the weapon, _realize_ what he’s doing…

Instead: "All you need to do," and Tim's voice is broken, "is turn around and pretend you were never here."

Kon is shaking his head while the finger on the trigger tightens, the hand scarily steady because in Drake’s mind _it’s time_ , "You can't, Tim. You _can't_. We **need** you. Fuck the Bats. They don't need you, but we sure as hell do." Kon moves slowly to his knees, right by Tim’s, "Bart and BB have been taken, Tim. The Light is going to kill them if we dont- please, please, Tim, don't do this. Don't-!"

**

In tandem, Hood and Robin experience another shift, another abrupt change, holding their hands to their abdomens as they bleed out all over the sand. ' _Batman would have entered some zen meditation phase, planning his next fourteen moves. I just bled._ '

And the agony of a ruptured spleen is enough to make the Bats scream aloud while Red Robin forces himself to climb past it, to look at Z and Owen with pain because he couldn’t save them, but still refuses to die in the desert while Bruce is out there.

And through the pain, of forcing the broken body to move because Pru's not dead (yet), something tightens around them both, something deeper, more real than the hot blood and cold night, more real than tying her scarf around her throat, wrapping their cape around their wound, and carrying her to the Jeep.

And the jerk is sick, abrupt, spinning the landscape crazily out of wack until the sun is beating down on them again.

Hood fumbles, uncoordinated, manages to get his helmet off in time to puke everywhere; Robin wretches on bile.

And Red manages to make it to his knees, breathing, his skull buzzing with pain. He spits, trying to get the grave dirt and ashes out of his mouth, his back still burning from the explosion, the Joker's laugh bouncing around in his brain and, ' _Mom? I love-!_ ' In a broken voice just before the explosion takes everything away.

His abdomen still sends synaptic responses of tearing from the sword sliding in him and ' _others will live. This death is…honorable_ ' in the depths of his mind where he will, can **never** forget.

Only his own acknowledgment saved him, Hood, and Robin, let him force his own memory to pervade the Mind Field, to trap them all in the same space so he could find them, get them both out. If he hadn't had his convictions that Jason and Damian are alive, that he'd made a promise to keep it that way…

Vision comes back in hazy stages, the silhouette of N kneeling between Hood and Robin, shadow of mouth moving, and his ears pop abruptly, slowly the cottony quality giving way in degrees.

He finally realizes Nightwing is holding the two other Bats up against himself while they shake, let him take their weight.

A blur, a shift, and blue eyes are terrified, hands on him.

Garbled something.

"Red…" Filters through. "Red?! No, no, no. KF! Mind Field, man! Fuck! Team! We need extraction! **Now** , dammit!"

And he can raise his arms, his hands, look around at the chaos in the sky because, fuck, still work to be done ( _Jesus Christ… Dami…Jay_ ).

The comm still in his ear finally sharpens, and Red Robin straightens, still on his knees.

"Team." His voice is rough, "we need extraction for Robin 2 and Red Hood 2. Everyone else, Red back on line. Phase II is a go."

Kon is staring at him, horrified, shaky but allows Red to use his shoulder as a brace to stand. He fumbles for an instant, his brain coming back in layers of the plan, and he manages to untangle the grapple line around his waist by the time KF one and two meet in the middle from opposite sides of the battlefield.

"Shit!" Both echo, staring at him. Red, listening now to updates, points at the three Bats wordless.

Both Bart and a younger speedster he doesn't recognize (but has the same uniform, so not part of the deceased Titans) grin and salute him. In the next moment, all three Bats are gone.

"Red, you need to-" Kon has a hand around his bicep, and a whole lot of worried right there in his eyes.

"We have a war to win," he interrupts ruthlessly. "Get me to that ship, Kon. Now! Or we've lost." He throws one arm around the Supe's shoulders, ready to rise up and meet the sky.

**

He knew a sky battle would be a bitch to plan because, well, fuck, but as he and Kon are dodging the falling debris, explosions, mini fights, etc., he's still switching his comm, giving heads-up and strategy to everything he sees.

When they get closer to the big ship and the defenses kick in, Red takes a deep breath as Kon maneuvers to miss lasers to the face.

"Throw me!" He yells over the wind, whirlybirds already in hand.

"Dude. If I ever go gray, it's going to be because of you, you know that, right?!"

"Just do it!"

And the move is one they've practiced, pulled off more than once. His arm slides down, his body falling until it's only their grip on each other’s forearms keeping him aloft.

Kon spins giving three sharp rotations before letting Red fly.

The whirlybirds hit the side of the ship perfectly, exploding a few seconds before he's sliding on the air currents through the destruction. His suit is snagged on jagged alien shit metal ( _use another next time, asshole, you're taller than you used to be_ ) but he's already up, running, accessing the schematics from the hack of their neural net. And the ship is creepily sterile, lit softly to give him the way.

With his disc reactivated the second he got inside, his thoughts are blocked, and it's all about the virus now. His bo in hand, he rebounds off the wall at the shadows coming around the corner, attacking with full force, full body, he can’t allow anything to stop him. Luckily, out of their suits the Insurgents are physically weak, falling under his blows without much fuss. Thugs on the bad side of Gotham put up more of a fight.

And he's running again, leaving the unconscious bodies behind him, sticking to the plan. But the whatever type of alien glass coming up on his right is enough to change the direction.

A massive storage hull, filed with rows and rows of containers… And human bodies. Eyes wide behind his domino, Red takes in the people trapped in some kind of suspended animation, peaceful in forced sleep.

"Holy-"

He snags the device from his belt, hits the button on his mask, changes comm frequencies.

"T! T!"

"My God," his counterpart breathes against his ear, "I see it!"

"I'm hooking you into their system," Red's already plugging the device into the wall panel. "Hack the shit out of this, get me in. We're going to need major extraction."

"Fuck, just _holy fuck,_ okay. On it."

"I'm going on to the Control Room to plant the virus, then I'm coming back for these people."

"Copy. Red, fuck, I’ll send you whoever I can."

But Red's already moving again, forcing himself away from that room, making his brain map out the way back. But, he has new strength, lives to save, and attacks oncoming aliens with vengeance.

**

The Bats take their roles seriously, and Jason Todd from the other world viciously pulls away from Nightwing.

"I'm going back out. Stay with the kid."

"Hood, I don't know what happened in there-"

"Red is out there fighting. He's not going it alone. You _hear_ me?!" And even with the helmet back on, there’s an edge, almost hysterical to Jason. Nightwing holds both hands up in an _I’m not the enemy_ gesture.

And Robin, forcing his nightmares and Red's memories back, finds his own strength to stand. "He is right, N. We are going back out there and we will fight," the youngest hisses, meeting Hood's helmet in agreement.

The three tap their comm units, "Hood 2, N, and Robin 2 coming back in action. Where's Red?"

And T is the one that answers them. "Red has infiltrated the Mothership to set the virus. He's found prisoners. We need extraction soon. Can you get on it?" And that guy sounds busy as fuck.

"Who's with him?" N demands, already moving to the underground storage where the two BatPlanes wait inside one of the few designated ‘safe zones.’

"Red's on his own." T replies grimly. "Can you be on extraction or not? I'm coordinating a _world war_ here, you know."

The Bats exchange a glance, "we're on it. Bat team 2 out."

Hood takes one plane, N and Robin the second.

"Fliers," N takes over the main channel, "we have survivors on the ship, Bat team 2 en route. We need cover to get us there."

A chorus of voices makes him grin. "Good. When we've got numbers, we'll call for more extractions."

The ground opens, "hold on to something Dami," N fires the bird with fast hands. "We've got a brother to find."

Robin, already re-checking his belt gives a sharp nod of agreement. "We stay with him."

"Agreed," Hood replies from the plane's channel, the second plane ready to take flight.

"Hero time," N sing-songs as they take to the sky.

**

 _Bitch_.

The Queen is still the regal figure from his world, a terrible being with glowing eyes and more height than the standard of her race. Her face twisted into displeasure when she can't crack his mind.

"You," and the voice, like tearing paper, whispers along his spine. "In all worlds, you are the thorn in my side."

"Nice," he says mildly, "glad you picked up on some of our idioms." The control panel now behind him is working on the countdown. Twenty more seconds and the virus will hit. He has to last for twenty seconds and then, well, whatever would happen would happen.

"Your device won't save you. For killing my kind, Timothy Jackson Drake, you too shall fall."

"Me, huh? I didn't come to your world and invade, you know." He twirls the bo around himself. "We didn't kidnap your people, turn your world into a death trap. But we sure as hell are going to fight. You underestimated the wrong race."

"This isn't YOUR world. You are dead here," she hisses out while he advances, "you should not BE here."

"Doesn't matter, me or anyone else. You and your people need to _get it._  Leave Earth the hell alone!"

The ships rocks sharply, throwing them both off balance, Red hits the wall sharply, on his feet quickly to try and take her out while he can-

But his body is jerked abruptly with an invisible hand, like Kon's TTK, only this pressure is like iron, holding him up, his extremities hyper extended. He grits his teeth at the abrupt agony of his legs being pulled too far, too much—

"At least I will be able to kill one of you," the Queen rises, eyes glowing bright. "Perhaps this death will send a wave through the universes and allow us victory."

"Fuck. You." He tries to manage, "others. Will. _Fight_."

And the Queen just laughs, extending a hand. Red's eyes wide as the domino is torn off, baring his face. "Look at me while I crush your mind like an egg."

She comes close enough to paw at the disc on his chest, and Red…Red always plans for the possibility his plans will fail…that he's going out of the vigilante game on a permanent basis (there was always a second in command for just in case). But…but, he's always wanted to go out in Gotham, to be buried next to his parents, to finally have a permanent home. From the moment Ra's asked him where he saw himself in the future, a gravestone has always been the first image. Now, he can finally have a real rest… Mom, Dad…

"Let go of my brother, you fucking _bitch_!" Dick…it's Dick coming to-

The Queen shrieks, a sound that makes him scream with her, her voice in his head, her thoughts in easy access of he tries hard enough—

Blue sparks and the smell of burning flesh which is weird because the Dick from his world had Tasers in his escrima sticks and this world's didn't have anything like that, where did he get—

His body drops abruptly, breath whooshing out of his lungs when he hits something not the floor. He has no idea Hood slid across the floor to catch his dropping body.

"Drake?!" Robin's masked face fills his vision. Not older Dami, the one that hates him, the one that is cupping his face in both gloved hands being strangely _gentle_. What the fuck is…

"What did she do to you? Tim? Tim, answer!"

And his brain must still be _out_ because is the Damian from his world calling him by his first name? Slow blink to make sure he’s really seeing this, but maybe a trap—?

"We need to get him to the plane," Hood's voice above him and the glint off the helmet, "now! Then we can find these hostages."

And he blinks, brain coming back online, running scenarios and tests to make sure she _isn’t still in there_. No press of her presence, and she can’t alter his thoughts, at some point the whirlybird on his chest got reactivated and he can feel the hum against the outer armor.

So he’s back in the moment and these aren't this universe's Bats and he's lying in Hood's lap like a terrible heroine in some book. And what the fuck is happening right now?

The grip Hood has on his legs and ribs just makes the ache all over pretty obvious since, well, he’d almost had his body pulled apart.

"T has to crack the door," he mumbles, shoving himself up, making Robin and Hood lean back. "The virus-" and he's standing, wobbly as hell because _ow ow ow_ , his fucking legs.

The Queen is on the floor, out cold and N is still standing, sticks glowing in his hands, but the guy moves to match his pace, takes his arm while he stands at the control panel, and maps the virus's progression. So what if he's leaning heavier than normal, it's fine, right? He's had a busy day.

"T? We've got launch. The neural net infection will begin in under a minute. Then they'll start dropping."

"Got it." His own voice in his ear sounds a little wonky, so maybe his brain isn't fully rebooted yet. "Door encryption is cracked, Red. I'm working on the stasis pods. They're going to start popping open soon."

His eyes take in all the code flowing across the screen with the alien characters, well, those don’t matter, the numbers are what he needs. "Shit. How many?"

"Thousands, _thousands_."

Okay, change of plans. "We'll have to land the ship. There's no way we can get them out before everything goes down. Damn it." Now he's in the game, one hundred percent. "I need an area big enough, close enough."

"On it."

"And we're going to have to alter Phase II to compensate."

"Already done. I've let the other teams know the new game plan. Hack it, and I’ll get all the ships on the ground."

 _Fucking right_. "Go us." He mutters while furiously typing in the alien numeric code. The ship gives an obvious stutter before gently beginning to sink.

"Red! Christ, Timmy," N's voice jars him out of the numbers as the hand on his arm shakes him minutely. Hood and Robin are right against the other side, watching him with the lenses down.

"The pods are going to start spitting out humans, _thousands of humans_." He explains fast, tapping his wrist computer for coordinates T is sending. "We've got to land this thing."

"Fucking what now?" Even though Hood’s got the helmet on, Red can see his eyes are huge.

"It's going to get bumpy. We need to set the landing pattern and get to the hostages." Red finishes entering the navigation and locks the system down with a complex encryption and password.

"Done." The ship gives another groan and Red taps the comm again. "Nav set, I’m moving to the hostages."

"Acknowledged." T replies, "anyone available will be coming your way. Processing the code to ships 2,3,4, and 5."

Red turns fast, too fast, has a second of vertigo, the room spins for an important second because well, too many things fucking with his brain apparently.

"Whoa, Tim." And…all three of the Bats have a hand on him, like in case he was going down or something. Blinking, he just stares, seriously creeped right the hell out (aside from the fact that his real name has come out of _more than one of them_ in the last twenty minutes or so). _Not the time—winning a war, saving a lot of people_.

"Hostages," is all he's got, pulling out of the hands (Still, What. The. Great. Fuck?). Walking right past the Queen on the floor, he takes off at a run, bo flicked out and in hand, but the virus is already working (score). They only pass sparse aliens on the ground, writhing, clutching their heads in pain.

The Bats are right on his heels, playing an odd kind of follow the leader, leaping over aliens when he does, dodging them with him until they come to that room and the damn door is open.

"Sweet, good work, T."

The Bats pause for a few crazy moments, staring at the walls lined with human beings.

"Jesus Christ," Hood whispers, the helmet's synths picking up the words.

The first row of pods starts moving, the hydraulics working, and the capsules start opening.

Of course, several humans in the row are this world's Titans.

Bart Allen in the Impulse costume throws himself up with a scream, drenched in the clear goo the preserved him.

"Bart!" Red takes him by the shoulders as the guy is ripping sensors off his temples and shaking like fuck.

"Tim?" That small voice, "oh my God, _Tim_?"

No time to explain, Red just nods, "it's okay man. We're getting everyone out. Just chill, get this shit off yourself. We're landing this thing. Later, we’ll have an epic heart-to-hear. Promise."

Arms come around him, smearing goop everywhere. He doesn’t even give a damn because _fuck, Bart_. "D-dead. You were—"

"It's okay, B. It's okay. Breathe, man. I just need you to breathe."

At the same time, the doorway fills with other bodies and two Kons are better than one. Totes.

The dual JLA is just in time for the big rescue.

Martian Manhunter is the next one to force himself out of the capsule, and a flurry of ' _holy shit, these people are alive!_ ’ gets the back-up moving.

This world's Kon takes over with Bart, and Red starts moving down the line, ripping off the mind sensors, pulling people up over the sides of the pods to cough and recover and breathe and be alive.

The Bats are pacing with him, following his example. He catches sigh of his world’s B pulling this world’s Roy up with vigor.

A heavy thud jars everyone, everything, and throws his balance off so he's on the damn floor (again).

"Landed it," T deadpans from his ear. "We've got them dropping like flies out there, Red. More coming your way."

"Acknowledged." He breathes, arms firming to push himself up.

Younger Robin appears beside him, gripping his bicep to help haul him up. Red looks down at him with a raised brow and ( _shit, no mask, totally forgot with world saving_ ) nods once before he's moving again, leaping up to the next row, catching a moving pod to follow its progression down to ground level.

The doorway is filled with more supes and allies, a whole lot of bodies helping get people the fuck out of these things. In one corner, this world's reunited Titans are hugging one another, hugging their too-thin, too-broken Kon, crying, pulling themselves together in degrees while that Kon gives them a quick low down while he shakes, eyes wide with a whole lot of shock setting in.

He’s pulling another human out, laying her over the side of the pod, ready to move to the next when something shakes his arm, a grip on the other side biting, and Red jerks.

"Your bleeding, Baby Bird," Hood interjects when his gaze is drawn to that side. And he feels his brows draw together ( _fuck, no mask_ ). “Need to take a breather.”

But, "what did you call me?" Spills out before he can bite his tongue.

Hood straightens a little, but doesn't balk or bitch or take it back. N on his other side turns his face with one finger so his eyes can look past those whiteouts to see the vague dark blue of Nightwing’s.

"You're not tracking well. We need to get you to a safe zone, okay? B is right there and we can—"

"I'm getting updates. We're not done." He interrupts ruthlessly, pulling out of their hold because this isn't _them_ , the other Bats, yes, but not the ones he’s been moving further away from for the last few years, and just why the fuck is it suddenly different? He could handle the way it was before, but this…this is starting to freak him out.

Something must be in his expression because N and Hood go very still, backing up a steps with hands in the air, a ' _nope, not dangerous_ ' gesture.

“Tim,” and N’s voice is low, almost gentle, just like when he used to get hurt as the other Robin and it was _Dick Grayson_ that bandaged him up, “we just to want to make sure you’re okay. That’s it. No one is attacking you.”

Maybe because his brain is still a little fucked, but what comes out is: “ _You’re_ not the Dick Grayson that gives a shit,” and it sounds as confused as he must be.

And N flinches like he’s been struck, his face changing under the domino, mouth open but nothing coming out. Red ( _my big fucking mouth_ ) turns his back on them, striding to the door to get the hell out, already fishing for another domino when this universe's Bats come through the door at a run.

"Fuck! Red!" Older Robin yells, bee-lining for him with Hood and the Bat on his heels.

He holds up a hand, "hey, we're good here-"

But he's thrown back a step as the three latch on to him in the middle of hostage central. This world’s Batman holds him up off his feet a few inches between him and Hood with Robin taking a tight hold of his bicep.  He laughs a little, letting himself relax in their hold.

From a few feet away, N just numbs out a little, watching Red relax in his counterpart’s arms, listening to that laugh, and his fists tighten so hard his wrists crack because… _fucking because_ … those fuckers are taking the right kind of care he’s neglected and apparently for too long… _Dammit, Tim, of course I care_. But the doubt, the slow realization he’s been coming to since the portal opened in their world is coming to a sick fruition, all the _how longs_ and _when was the last times_ that he really has to think about. Checking his call logs for the last time he’d reached out to Tim’s celly just to catch up, for the last time without masks and cases and the mission, the last time it was Tim and Dick instead of N and Red.

Robin makes a rude noise in the back of his throat because, well, it wouldn't take much for Red Robin to agree to stay in this world, would it? Why be the Bat's whipping boy when he could be cared for here?

"Thank fuck you're okay," Hood, this world's Hood says against Red's ear, voice altered with the helmet. "We heard you willingly jumped into the Mind Field. What the hell were you thinking?!"

"Still standing, right? Must have been a good day," he laughs again, not even going to admit the why behind it.

One of them presses too hard against his side and his breath rushes out in a choke.

The three pull back immediately, set him on his feet, and Batman's hand on his side to turn him so the guy can take a knee and look at the gouges in his suit.

"Fucking alien ships man. Don't make 'em like they used to," he jokes weakly.

The sound of leather creaking is the other Red Hood beside N clenching both fists as well.

"Motherfuckers," is spit through the synths, "that's _our_ Red and they better get with the fucking program and _recognize_ —"

"We shall fix this," Robin interrupts from beside him, the kid sneering more than usual, lenses turned to the other Bats around their bird. "Once we return. If it is not too late, we will begin to fix this."

At that, N and Hood both look at him with surprise since, well, kid's always been the loudest voice against Tim Drake.

"Fucking A, kid. Solid." Hood replies.

"I'm on board," N agrees. "Right now, we take care of the immediate threats. Family fix-it time in our own world." But, N has a spear of pain and panic in his chest that has nothing to do with this fight; the same spear when he watched helplessly as Tim jumped through the portal out of their world in the first place, a fear that whispers _why would he **want** to come back? What does he have to come back to?_

And the Bats part, moving to help with the awakening humans.

**

Red pulls away from the Bats when data form T and O starts pouring in from around the globe, and T fills him in with highlights.

"Every ship has a stasis chamber full of people. All the ships have landed so kudos for us."

Finger on the comm, Red holds out a fist and gets an immediate fist bump from all three Bats. "Good news on that front. How are the forces holding up?"

"Kicking ass and taking names," T replies with the grin in his tone. "The virus incapacitated their mental net, so our invaders are funny looking aliens with the strength of a ten year old. Suits are inactive and the flying devices are falling out of the sky at alarming rates. Good job, Red. The virus works."

And the pressure, the weight in his chest, lifts enough that Red Robin can take his first full breath in almost a week.

"Fuck, we did it." He mumbles while the other Bats still watch, still take note of him slightly swaying, his feet shifting to automatically counterbalance. "We won."

"Certainly looking that way, Red. You saved our world, man." And he can hear O in the background over the comm while the other three just start with the smiling thing.

And a short laugh chuffs out from nowhere, and his hand starts shaking. "Dude. We saved your world. All of us. Team effort for the win, right?"

Significant pause because well, who would know him better but himself? "… You sound off, Red. What is it?"

"I'm good. Need some fresh air, but I'm okay." He waves the other Bats into the hostage effort, and something catches his eye immediately. He makes a motion at the third row of pods and there…is Alfred Pennyworth. Batman’s eye catches it as well, and he pauses for a crucial moment before he turns long enough to give Red a pointed finger _a 'sit the hell down and wait for us_ ' motion before he and the others are leaping up.  Red waves them on again, thanking whoever in the hell let them save their Alfred before he strafes through the door and out into the ship.

He gets to the sunlight, standing in the hole he blew in the side and there's a fuck-ton of people standing around, gathering and tying up aliens in piles. When he makes an appearance, the crowds start screaming and clapping and just awkward as hell.

"Uh. Hey…yeah, the virus worked." He calls out to get some quiet and to be heard. "So, win. We're still getting reports around the globe, so not there yet, but it's looking good for Earth. You've done wonders, people. Great work."

And he steps out from the ship, moving to the roving bands to help tie up the downed aliens.

Not long after, the first hostages start coming through the doors of the ship, flinching in the sunlight. And the supes jump in, seriously too happy to help with the clean-up while the regular humans start looking for their families and homes.

This world's JLA starts organizing a group of the human freedom fighters to start taking names and families, to arrange vehicles and transportation. A few tents are already set-up for First Aid and supplies for weary fighters. He's happy to see other Kon with two sandwiches and a bottle of water surrounded by his team and looking like he’s a completely different guy from the one he met a few days ago. Dude totally deserved some good.

"Red, we have positive report. The Insurgents are down, mass capture and containment almost complete on all fronts. We have control of the ships, and the Queen has been apprehended by the JLA on your end."

Straightening from pulling debris off a human fighter, he reaches a hand down to him, the other tapping the comm.

"Good news all around, T. We're coordinating the clean-up effort here."

He pulls the man's arm around his shoulders and turns walking the guy toward the First Aid tent, half listening to the guy's thanks for finding him buried.

And the Tengu is just suddenly on the other man's side, hefting the other arm.

"B, glad to see you're okay," he says as they had the guy off to one of the volunteers for treatment.

This world's B crosses his arms over his chest, one hand tapping the comm, "he's by the First Aid tent, appears to be fine," to whoever is on the other end.

"T and my sons were worried about you," the Tengu says from behind that bat face. "You need water and to sit for a few minutes or I'll get all of them here before you can take off, understand?"

And, _wow_. The guy just grabs his bicep and drags him to an empty spot of ground by the tent wall and shoves him down. One of the volunteers, looking dusty and worn but satisfied, comes right over. "What do you need?" She gives Red a critical once over.

"Water, food, if possible," the Tengu answers with a nod. "Thank-you."

"You got it." And she leans down over Red. "My little sister was on that ship. Thank-you, thank-you so much."

And he just cracks a half smile, "glad she's okay."

Then the lady puts a gentle hand to his shoulder before she's off to get them supplies. Tengu finally sits his ass down beside Red, forearms on his raised knees.

"T says we're mostly in the clear," Tengu informs him, "I owe you a great debt of thanks, Red Robin. You saved my world and my sons to boot."

"All in a few day’s work, B," he replies wearily and earns a laugh from the man behind the mask. He wonders how long it'll take him to ask Dick for the mantle back, but estimates not long. Besides, Dick looks fantastic in Nightwing…maybe he could go red instead of blue because those finger stripes…

"Your people are accounted for," Tengu accepts the water and supplies from the woman and hands over half to Red. "All Super groups and humans. We've had few casualties thankfully. It…should have been much worse."

Fishing in his utility belt, Red opens the water, puts the antibiotic in his mouth before swallowing gratefully. "The Titans were supposed to stay in our world."

"Why is that?"

"I promised I wouldn't put them in this path again." Red shrugged, "shows how well they listen to the guy in charge, right?"

"Metas can be that way with the humans you know," Tengu points out. “They like to _worry_.”

"Preach it," Red agrees, holding up his bottle, and Tengu taps his to the side. For long moments, the two sit in easy silence, taking bites of sandwiches, watching the activity around them, hiding down out of sight and out of the way.

**

The Titans, his Titans (well, his Kon) find him before anyone else does, only a few hours after he managed to slip away from the Tengu. He’s halfway down the city, the remains of 54h Street trying to lift a slab of concrete from a pile, trying to make sure no one is trapped beneath. He’d been calling out for hours, searching for survivors, and damn his voice has been starting to give out, but there’s so much more destructions, could be more people, more fighters buried… it’s Gotham destroyed all over again, his mind going to _how many were buried alive_ …?

The load is suddenly so light, he looks up wearily, and there's his Kon, healthy and alive and smiling like that time he put fast-acting itching powder in KF's onesie.

"Hey man," Red grins.

"There you are. Seriously, dude, epic job taking down, you know, the world." Red chuffs a laugh and the sound is as tired as he feels.

He waves a hand, gingerly leaning back down to pull up another piece of concrete while Kon’s apparently got the heavy shit, “Group effort, okay? Everyone had it-"

But Kon doesn't usually buy his crap, just like how B used to be with him back when he was a different Robin—Kon understands he isn’t the type of guy to harp on injuries or take a pause when there are innocent people still at risk, a job still to be done. His meta tosses the huge piece without care, taking the other out of Red’s slightly shaky hands, hauling him back up to stand, "Shut up and c'mon. No one is under this, okay? X-Ray vision and stuff, right?"

He doesn't get the chance to nod before Kon's got him around the waist and they are airborne (Red just allows his weight to sink into Kon’s side because _holy fuck he’s beat_ ). The two go over heads and destruction and clean-up until there's a whole lot of his Titans, _his_ Titans, waving like mad from the ground.

They come at him in a rush of ' _you're alive, kudos for not, you know, dying_.' Cassie and Bart get to him first, rushing to embrace him on both sides, their voices and expressions so happy to see him, so glad he’s alive, he made it, and they aren’t angry (yet). He winds an arm around Cassie’s back and Bart’s shoulders, holding the two tightly with his aching arms, letting his forehead rest on Cassie’s shoulder for a minute before he pulls back and greets BB, Bunker, and Rave.

Miguel’s voice is shaky as hell, rattling off in Spanish faster than Red’s tired brain can compute, the guy holding him up with both arms and the lightly pulsing power radiating purple around them.

He laughs tiredly, “ _hombre_ , it’s good, man. All good.”

Then there’s a whole bunch of adjectives that range from _dumbass_ to _boss man_ to whatever, but Red’s with it enough to catch _‘don’t ever do this to us again_ ’ and his arms tighten around the taller guy just an inth more.

Raven and BB oddly enough, aren’t giving him the disapproving stares and admonishments he expected from the older Titans since, well, he’d pretty much disregarded them on the whole warning thing. Instead, BB throws an arm around his shoulders while Raven stares him down (fondly, he swears that her fond look), her cape floating gently around her in the non-existent breeze.

He lets them do their thing with the sudden burst of talking and the play-by-play of their parts in the big battle, recounting strategy that he’s really going to have to remember for later so he can update files and spreadsheets in the database. He keeps his arms by his sides, wings close while he listens but dammit if they don't—

"Red?" Cassie interrupts Bart's stirring finger puppet theater of how he beat a circle of aliens without trying hard. Speed, motherfuckers.

"I'm good," he tries while smiling at Bart, but she already has his arm and-

"Shit," she distinctly blurts. "Kon! Bandages and alcohol if you can find any. Hey, Red, I need you to sit down, all right?"

He waves a hand, his head fuzzy and warm because his team came anyway, even knowing what they’d be up against, and all of them are okay, and just, no, no, he's good, really and _all of you are here and all of you are okay_ , but there’s people seriously hurt or dying out there still, probably, and he needs to just get back out there—

"He's going over!"

Red manages to turn his head to look because _Over where? Who_?

But his legs lose strength abruptly, and he finds himself held against a surprised Gar (when did he move next to me?), the shorter man’s arms around him before he's—

Out.

**

"Red!"

At the sight of an out cold Red Robin, the world goes _ape shit_.

T demands to know what's happening since he suddenly has alarms going off in the Bunker, the Titans surround the bird, the other group of Titans come to see what happened, the rightfully placed Bats heard "he's going over!" and likewise join the crowd, the visiting Bats muscle through the onlookers for the visiting Batman to quickly take his former Robin from Beast Boy’s arms, moving fast so he gets as little push back as possible.

“He’s bleeding out,” the Batman calls to his own team and to keep others from starting to argue about _who’s taking care of Red Robin_ and focus on _shit, shit, get the bleeding stopped_.

Cradled against his old mentor's chest, Red is completely slack, a mess of torn and dirty uniform, blood drying on his face, hands, and leaking through his body armor. N, Hood, and Robin surround the striding Batman to the First Aid tent and clear off a table for B lay the bird down.

"Hood arms, Robin legs, Nightwing, with me."

The Bats snap to, Hood bracing both arms at Red's biceps, Robin lightly pressing down on the ankles in case he should come to swinging. The Batman is emptying supplies out of his utility belt when the female volunteer comes up with, "What do you need?"

The other group of Bats barely register when the visiting Batman starts:

"Gauze, sterile needle and medical thread if you have any, if not sutures, if none of that, medical tape, alcohol."

He and N work fast, assessing the numerous gashes ripped out of the uniform, the other Batman and Red Hood step in beside the visiting Bats to deactivate the security traps with knowing hands before removing the harness and utility belt. N and his Batman exchange a glance since someone else knew the traps better, easier than they did (N grits his teeth at his counterpart moving with purpose beside him, hands unerringly removing the harness from Red).

And when the body armor is gone, the body suit unzipped while N holds Red’s upper body up while his counterpart gets the outer layers off fast; once it’s said and done, B takes an audible breath, his eyes wide beneath the cowl because _good God, what the hell happened to Tim? The scars_ …he'd been a little marked up from years of being a vigilante, being Robin and then Red, but the jagged one across his abdomen is new, the ones on his back that can be seen around two semi-deep lacerations are horrifying. _And he knew nothing of this_.

His other sons are likewise shocked, just by the strangled noises coming out of them and the grim set to their counterparts (who aren’t shocked, who _knew_ , and B’s mind runs with the implications of it all). Robin's hands tighten on Tim's knees, Hood's helmet tilted to take in the span of skin from neck to waistline where the suit is peeled down; his whole body shudders with memory, with that whip tasting flesh, and _fuck_ now he knows everything he saw really happened; it was all the unbridled, complete _truth_. He and Robin look at one another, both coming to the same epiphany.

N snaps himself out of the self-recriminations because Tim is still bleeding sluggishly from lacerations and punctures; he cleans up the blood so B can assess and triage.  His reaction clear in the downturn of his mouth while his counterpart talks low in his ear:

“Kidnapped. Tortured,” this world’s Batman says right by his ear, holding up one of Red’s arms to be out of the way.

N’s domino turns toward that reinforced cowl, “when?”

“Didn’t say. Earlier this year, the scars aren’t faded enough for longer.”

“Who?”

“He refused to talk about it.”

While Hood threads the needle for him, B calls out, “Superboy.”

Stepping through the crowd, the teenager muscles a place for himself, looking at the battered Red Robin with worried eyes.

“X-Ray vision. We need to know if he’s bleeding internally, anything broken.”

“On it,” the meta’s eyes are already hot with the power, forcing himself to calm enough to scan through the first layer of skin to the damaged vessels and arteries, looking for something more substantial. He gets a whole lot of nothing with broken bones or injured viscera. Other than the stunning lack of spleen, looks like the damage isn’t deeply internal.

“No broken bones or ruptured insides. Spleen is still gone, so it’s our Red,” the teenager glances over his shoulder. “Speaking of which, KF! RRK!”

“Spleen?” The youngest Robin over from staring at Red Robin’s slack face, giving his Bats an arched eyebrow.

Kon just stares while Kid Flash unhooks the battered-looking red case from the straps holding it to his back and hands it over. Raven silently strafes beside the Red Hood. He takes the case from KF, reaching over B’s working hands to give it to Raven.

“What do you mean ‘lack of spleen?’” Robin presses.

Kon’s brows draw tight while Raven takes out the glass vial of power antibiotics, drawing B and N’s gazes while she uncaps a syringe from the kit.

And it’s the other Batman that answers, “he was stabbed, looking for this Batman in your world,” and a nod to said Batman who has visibly paused in stitching up the lacerations. “Lost his spleen in the process.”

“That was more than two years ago,” N replies, voice a little _off_.

“The when is inconsequential,” Raven interjects, knowingly injecting Red’s arm with the antibiotic, “keeping the condition _managed_ is crucial. He has had enough brushes with sepsis for the year.” She replaces things in the kit, Red Hood looking down to see a bag of IV antibiotics, two more glass vials, a syringe of pure adrenaline, and a square device with two electrode connected ( _why the fuck would they be carrying a mini-defibulator…?_ ). Raven closes the case with a _snap_ , and the Red Hood flinches slightly, but she looks up at him with those eyes that suddenly narrow on him before she steps away and gauze pads are taped over the stitched lacerations so Red can be laid back down.

“Good work,” B says to Superboy, tilting his head to the side. “We’re going to take care of him, give us a little time.”

And Kon can see right past the lenses and the cowl, his face a mask because he _really_ doesn’t believe that shit for a second. “Been a long time since the Bats have said that about him,” the meta observes mildly, “s’okay, once he goes back through that portal, we know who really watches his ass.”

B, N, Robin, and the corresponding Red Hood straighten, eyes swinging toward the kid with the clenched jaw and his own narrowed eyes. BB takes a hold of his bicep, pulls him away with a: “we’re not here to antagonize, Blue. Whatever is best for Red right now, we’ll deal with.”

Letting BB pull him away from the table, Kon-El just snarls, “they didn’t even know about his immunities, man. Seriously, what a great way to say _get the fuck out of the family and stay **gone**_.”

KF is right there with him, “Blue, we know who’s got his back, okay? They want to play house for a hot minute, whatev, long as Red doesn’t get fucked about it, fine. We know what really goes down and _so does he_.”

The Red Hood and Batman of this world exchange a sharp glance and then look to their obviously affected counterparts (of course they had been to _that_ world, seen evidence with their own eyes in that Cave, in the Penthouse, but Red’s Titans talking about it so easily makes the situation that much more defined), but B refuses to let Red Robin stay on this table and bleed out any longer. He moves to finish up with the other punctures. Once realizing the Bats have it all in hand, the groups behind them start dispersing. The Titans don’t go far, watching with knowledgeable eyes.

And B, along with his Bats, are now very well aware the volume of Red Robin’s life for the past few years have been filled with too much—too much they have missed. His sons help get the body suit back up and over Tim's battered frame while the thoughts and implications churn.

"We can take him to the Bunker," this world’s Red Hood isn’t talking to any of the Bats but _his_ Batman, "he could rest easier there rather than out in the open."

"Agreed," the other Batman muscles his way through and is already moving to lift Tim up, as though this man is one of theirs, their responsibility. "I'll get him back in the plane and be back. T and O can monitor him while we’re cleaning up."

"With you," the other Red Hood grabs the harness, utility belt, wings, and pack, not bothering to care about the disapproval radiating from the visiting Bats since, well, point. Leaving their injured bird in the open could have bad results (since, yes, Ra’s is still wandering around with his ninjas and assassins).

And just seeing how carefully, how gently his other self in the Batsuit is carrying Tim cradled against his chest with the man’s head on his shoulder makes a whole lot of ' _that should be you, asshole. That should have been you for the last two years_ ' well up in N, making him ride the guilt train just that much harder. It took way too much for him to realize how long it had been since he'd treated his brother like family. Everything had started being about ' _what do you need, N_?'

And fuck. What if they asked him to stay?! What if he wanted to?!

His chest aches with it all.

B pats his shoulder on the way out of the tent, but none of it makes up for the loss he already feels.

**

Fuck.

Nightmare.

_Damn it, Jay, firey death sucks._

"Hey man, it's okay," and his own voice jars him hard, snapping him into action. He's out of the bed, ready to fight.

The other Tim is staring, mouth open. "Holy fuck, man. You're just…wow."

 _Oh, his bad._ "Uh, thanks. Assassin training and stuff. Don't use the lethal part but you know."

Bandages are wound around his upper body and…fuck, he's shirtless. Great, just great.

"How's-?"

"Nope," other him just stands there, arms folded across his chest. One finger points back to the bed.

And, well, _him_. Tim sits gingerly on the edge, waiting.

"Cleanup isn't going to be quick, I mean, we all get that so no big deal. Now that the people of Earth are free, we can start rebuilding."

"Win." Red says tiredly, scrubbing a hand down his face.

"Totally. I recalibrated your device so the majority of your world's forces could get back. They were epic by the way. Most of them wanted to stay and help with the rebuild.”

"Natch. Superheroes do it better.”

“Heh, apparently you're an inspiration."

Red shrugs a shoulder, keeps himself from wincing. “Please tell me-"

"Nope, they, uh, insisted on staying. Well, your Bruce had to go back with the JLA, but the others are still here. Make sure you aren’t dead or our prisoner or, well, I think your N was worried about Ra's possibly kidnapping you too. Can't even blame him. Seriously."

Tim sighs, shoves a hand through his too long hair. It really would be too much to ask for that they’d all just gone and went back to their Gotham, their Cave, their lives, and left him the hell alone to go back to his. And, why the hell was it all of a sudden _too much to ask for_ anyway?

"They've been coming back to check on you—frequently. O is ready to start up with the bitch smackings. You know, brooding Bats."

And that's disturbing. Tim frowns with thought.

"I could tell," the other answers with a quirk of his lips, "classic guilt. I mean, those three are obvious, like, really. Whatever they saw in the Mind Field did a number to change their Tim Drake policy."

Tim raises a hand, wipes the whole thing away. “Nope, I am not even going to touch that mess right now.”

"Uh-hu, we are talking about this or all four of you are going to dance around everything even more than you are now. Nope. You saved my world, I am so going to save your family."

"There's nothing to save." Tim just shrugs, "I've moved on, man."

"Try again. My bullshit meter is going crazy. Besides, my Bats already gave me some deets on your world, Tim. I've kept my family together because I force them to talk about their feelings and before you ask, yes even B. It's the only way to survive this life. You need to take a page from my book and tell them exactly how they've pretty much forced you out of their lives."

 _Whoa, just a minute_. "It's not like that, at all. I left too, you know. I didn't fight to stay. My call."

His counterpart actually looks pissed, "abandonment issues much?"

He just blinks, and the other guy is rolling right along.

"You're only saying what you think is the correct response when you should really be telling the truth. No one should fight to be part of a family. _That's not how it works, Tim_."

Angrily, he sneers, "my world is different.  I finally started to get it. Two years, man, and I get that shit. I'm the placeholder until Dami got there.  Fuck, I shouldn't have forced myself on them in the first place, but there was no other option at the time. Damn it, it's fine how it is now that I understand." Tim buries his face in his hands, "look, man. It's been a crazy few days, okay? I can't do this now. I need coffee and updates. Do me a solid here."

The shorter man isn't convinced and every muscle in his body is tight. "You just woke up from some pretty epic blood loss and exhaustion, so I'm cutting you a reprieve since I'm awesome. This, however, is not acceptable, Tim."

Great, his other self is also an epic pain in the ass.

"I am going to be a bro on this one and get you coffee even though you totally macked on my Bats but no updates."

Tim freezes, eyes suddenly wide. "They-"

Other Tim hitches a thumb at himself. "Bat therapist right here. Of course they told me. I used to be theirs until we all grew out of it, which is fine. I'm very NOT upset. Rather the opposite. You took care of them for me, gave them what they needed at the time. Good plan. Self-sacrificing, well, _maybe_ because I know how good they are in bed."

Tim coughs awkwardly because _of course his other self would **get it**_. "Uh, yeah. I owe you high fives for having some huge balls."

The shorter one arches a brow and a whole lot of _ah-ha_ is there, "ah, I see. You didn't."

"No." The voice is softer, but firm and the other Tim reads into all of it. He stands, the lines of his frame taunt.

"Coffee, then. Hang tight."

“Thanks, man.”

“…don’t. Just…just don’t, okay? You came here and bled for my world, for my brothers. This is the least I can do.”

And leaving the other Tim Drake who is so righteously, sadly _fine_ with being left is exceptionally hard, but seeing his Dick and his Jason waiting out in the hall makes it somewhat more tolerable. Both Bats look at him with the same fondness cultivated over years, and this world’s Tim Drake has to give them the same smile. He waves the two down the hallway, shooing them.

“He needs coffee and time to process.” Tim explains, “he’s—I am very not comfortable with where he is right now.” This said as they come into the main communications center, the other three Bats looking up, hopeful.

His Dick just ignores the three visitors, “meaning?”

Tim’s brows furrow, “he is—“ his eyes go to the listening other Bats, “not in a good place, Dick. I can safely say I am jumping over the _concerned_ hurdle to hit the next one up.”

Tim gets a mug down from the cabinet, pouring a full mug his Jason immediately takes.

“Spell it out, Timmy,” his Red Hood asks.

“The two of us can exist in the same universe,” he replies with a shrug, “I’ve done my homework, and he can stay here without an adverse effect to this universe or others. That’s how concerned I am, Jay.”

Robin, the shorter Damian Wayne, is a few feet from them without seeming to move. “He cannot stay here. That Timothy Drake is ours.”

And Tim arches a brow down at him, “surprising assessment coming from the child that shoved him out the door.”

Damian flinches.

“It’s not just his fault,” the other Red Hood is leaning against the counter, bare-faced and brooding. “We all got our lot to atone for with Red.”

“Understatement,” Tim replies, standing with his own cup of coffee, waving his Jason away to take the other mug to the Tim still hurting. “And probably, possibly too late to fix the damage. How long has he been kicked out of your family?”

“He hasn’t been—“ and the other Dick looks just this side of desperate.

“Of course he has,” this shorter Tim, just as methodical as theirs. “ _Dick_. That guy in there? The one that chose to come here and save my world? He’s only _not_ suicidal because dying in the line of the mission is the only way to go, and believe me, that shit is going to happen eventually. It’s a matter of when. He’s had some time to talk to my brothers and they put a whole lot together about how he lives, why he didn’t think any of you would bother to show up here.” He hitches a thumb at himself, “Detective, remember? I don’t need your affirmation, I have the proof in the room down the hall.”

The other Dick still sitting at the table just stares, those blue eyes full of turmoil.

“So, since I am in essence, almost but not the same guy, let me give you the low down,” his eyes slide to his Dick, leaning with him against the counter. “Your options, are they are now, stand at, one: giving the guy up. Dig your claws out of your intel source and let someone that give a shit about him have at it. If he doesn’t want to go back, don’t fight it. Let it be. Or—“ he holds up a hand to stop the three simultaneously opening their mouths to start arguing, “—you get the full implications of what happened here and what you’ve learned about your Tim Drake. Make this shit right and _keep_ it that way. _Fight_ for him.”

And the other Jason Todd, the other Damian Wayne, the other Dick Grayson straighten in a strange cohesion, like they’d already come to that same conclusion. The Dick by his side sighs a little as he does because any hope they may have had for this other Tim Drake to stay, just ebbs away in the face of this type of determination.

**

And the Tim of the newly freed world is so very right.

Dami, Dick, Jason, and the other him are staring, their faces grim while the Bats from his universe work the device that would open up the door to their world and take them home.

And Red just looks at these Other Bats with a soft smile because Kon and his other self are holding hands, looking back at him fondly and their Titans are alive. Damian is next to T, satisfied his brother is back and his world their own, that kid can smile, can stand…

And Jason's eyes aren't green anymore but a startling blue, just like his eyes are in the portrait at the Manor, the one a young Red used to stand before after training, swearing he would do his best to make his predecessor proud.

And Dick, Dick…standing close to Jason, he has a new feel, and it's there in his face and his eyes— _hope_. That gentle softness and determination in the liquid flow of his body, in the sway of his hips when he walks, reminiscent of the acrobat, and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes when he smiles now.

Red can look them over and be satisfied with what he's accomplished here. He can smile back through the pain in his chest making it tough to breathe.

"You guys need to keep it together, okay?" He says low, "I believe in you."

T and Kon come at him, embrace him first. "Thank-you," T whispers against his shoulder, "Red, Tim. God, thank-you."

The laugh bubbles up, low and slightly pained, "hey man. It's okay. You guys, your world, it's going to be okay."

And that guy, the short one had the Titans and the Bats, and they'd keep him safe from Ra's and he'll go back to being Red someday, too.

Dami without the domino, still in his old Robin costume, holding himself tightly, is next. And his arms are shaky but so tight with his own brand of strength when they wind around Red, his face pressing in the right side of Tim's neck.

"I…am so honored to _know_ you," and his voice, Red can't keep it from that crazy kind of hoarseness when you feel too much. "I can't even tell you how proud I am to be a man that can call you brother."

And his neck is a little wet from where the kid is pressing but his own arms tighten, his hand coming up to the back of the kid's head while they both pretend he isn't crying.

"I…will strive to be a man you can always call brother," the younger finally says. "Red-"

"It's okay," he soothes even though…even though it's really not. "It's okay, Dami." The kid finally pulls his face away, staring up with those green eyes, slightly red but dry now.

"You will always have a place here, with us." The hold tightens, emphasizes his point.

"Thank-you, Dami." Because _fuck_ , his eyes are getting heavy now and he has to pull away.

Then… These two, no masks, no cowls, just them, and his lenses up so they can see everything.

Jay doesn't fuck around, just steps in and grabs his neck in those big palms with thumbs pressed against his cheeks, lowers his head and presses their mouths together. And Tim melts into it, his hands grabbing at Jason's biceps, holding tight when he opens his mouth just to get a taste before they both pull back, and press their foreheads together.

"You could stay," Jason whispers holding his gaze. "They don't need you, not like we do."

"I know," Tim whispers back, "but I can't leave my team."

"They have another Robin," he counters gently, thumbs moving, making small circles.

And Tim smiles up at him, "they do, but I've got promises to keep."

And Jason sighs against his lips, hands moving down to wrap around his waist and lift him up against the warmth. Like Dami, he buries his face in Tim's neck for long moments, pressing his mouth against the beat of his pulse, squeeze his eyes shut while he holds on.

And the other Jason Todd automatically wraps his hand around the other Dick's wrist, squeezing lightly. His helmet imbibed with sensitive microphones picks up everything. And fuck, the kid… _Fuck_. His mind is going too fast with the implications, what this Hood means to Tim, what promises he's gotta come back for, and Dick looks at him without the lenses because now he feels like more of a bastard than he did after leaving the Mind Field.

 _This_ is sacrifice.

And Jay finally puts him down again and with obvious reluctance, releases the hold. Right beside him, Dick without the cowl smiles down, patiently waits, never demanding something for himself, but Tim just breathes and starts to reach before he finds himself in a very familiar octopus hold, lifted off his feet again with this Batman holding him so tight, like he's something of worth.

He buries his face in Dick's neck, forcing himself to blink rapidly to try clearing out the hazy sheen while his chest hitches.

"Thank-you, Tim," Dick whispers hoarsely against his ear, head bowed over him. "Thank-you."

The small laugh is too thick, too heavy, but he manages it anyway. "I should be the one saying that, you know."

And the gentle press of kisses to his temple and forehead answers that for him. He raises his head enough to look in those eyes, ones that are hopeful now, ones that can actually see him.

And there doesn't have to be anything else because Dick gets it 'I would never leave if I didn't have to.' 'We will always be here if you ever want to come back.'

On his feet, with his body and wings hiding it, Tim's shaky hands grab one of Dick's and one of Jason's, putting their palms together between both of his.

"Take care of each other. For me, be happy."

Jason and Dick lace their fingers together and their free arms come around him, pulling him against the front of their bodies again, pressing his forehead against them both.

And the portal flares bright for a second, the indication that it will close soon.

The youngest Robin, who has remained silent and watchful clenches his fists at his sides, caught in a moment of indecision. But he takes a deep breath:

"Drake…"

Only the sudden tenseness in Reds back shows he's heard.

"Drake… _Tim_ , I am calling you," Damian swallows hard, but presses on. "Will you come?"

He raises his head to look at them one last time, his heart in his eyes, and the soft acceptance in theirs before they let him go.

**

The JLA and Outlaws grabs Hood, N, and Robin, right as they step out of the portal since a whole lot of congratulating them is in order and the noise is loud with victory.

By the time Red steps through, backs are turned and he can dip behind the portal and leave the massive meeting room without even being noticed since the Titans aren’t there.

Shaky, forcing himself to be carefully blank, he makes it to the Watchtower's teleportation room, quickly typing in coordinates before stepping up on the pad. One hand braces against the wall when it feels like his body might just give out, when he loses his endless strength to keep moving, to keep the horrors of his life at bay because _what has he done? What the fuck has he done…?_

"Timmy?"

And he can't think of that voice as his Dick because that one hasn't been his in a long, long time. His free hands shoots out, lightning fast, presses the big red button to execute and send him away from here where he can hurt without an audience.

"Shit, Baby Bird, wait-!"

But he's in the perch in San Fran, the Tower, familiar surroundings, his things in a world he helped save long before today. The backpack falls to the floor and he's sure he gives the code to initiate black out, no one in or out before he stumbles to the bedroom and into the adjoining bathroom, stripping off pieces of his suit with numb fingers.

He unzips the body suit and…the Gotham Knight's shirt covers up marks from fingers and mouths. The shirt still smells like the Dick that put it over his head this morning, and the dark haired man in the mirror must be injured somehow because he's _crying_. Fuck, that guy looks like he’s taken one hell of a beating, right? Right…?

His legs lose strength and Tim Drake allows himself time to shake.

**

Two hours and civvies. Showers, Alfred food, and a brooding, energy-filled table. B is already riding that train with them. Little D was shaky as fuck when he quietly gave his report mid-meal about what he went through and saw in the Mind Field, staring at his hand while describing the two near suicides of Tim Drake, in painful detail.  Jason Todd also is very not okay, especially when the whole tortured thing comes out. B listened, eyes for his sons, patting them both on the shoulders, tells them to take a few days, and he'd contact the Birds of Prey to watch over Gotham while the Bats are out.

"Where are you-" Dick starts, picking up his backpack since he’s already planned on taking the BatWing the _fuck to that Tower_.

"I'm taking the to Titan's Tower." Dick just sighs at him because, well, some minds. And B is throwing on a hoodie to go with his jeans, "Jason, Damian, you need to recuperate-"

"No fucking way, B. You're going to Baby Bird, I want in."

"I am coming as well."

Dick just motions to himself, ready to rock, arms crossed over his chest.

And B sighs, "he may take it… _badly_ if we all show."

"He may take it that we all had some realizations with this little trip in _holy shit_ land," Jason counters, already throwing his holsters and jacket on over his t-shirt.

B broods about it for another few minutes. "We assess. No rushing him." And the Dark Knight turns abruptly, leading the way for his sons to follow.

"That's why you're the best," Dick calls after him.

“And we are seriously getting that little asshole pizza, so you’d better pull over, B.” Jason insists, grabbing hold of Dami’s collar to unnecessarily drag him along.

**

Kon, however, is pretty fucking unimpressed with the civilian Batfamily showing up in the Common Room of the Tower. If this had been a _catastrophe!_ He would have deferred to the older Bats and probably been the good little mindless soldier he used to needle Red for being, but…but the four of them are just _regular people_ right now.

“Look, Blue, this ain’t some—“ Hood starts out, holding one empty hand out while the other holds the pies above his shoulder.

“Don’t care, man. You got a crime thing, fine, but if you **don’t** then I’m not bothering him, and no way are you’re getting up there otherwise.”

The sharp blue eyes of Br—Batman (wow, he is never going to be able to call that guy by his name) are assessing.

Damian’s expression is very unhappy with that answer, “I am able to fit through the vents, you know.”

Kon shrugs mildly, “good luck with the pressure traps. You might find most of them. Maybe. Red’s good like that, you know.”

“I would risk it,” Damian replies seriously, like _dead_ serious, and Kon just stares because _what the fuck?_

“He’s been locked down since he got back,” spills out of his mouth before he can figure out why he’s telling them shit, “the Tower sent a text when he got back to his Perch. He hasn’t been answering my comms, so that’s why I’m here.”

Now, there’s a whole lot of worried glances, even the _mother-fucking-Batman_ looks worried.

 _Holy shit, am I still in the other world or something?_ Kon’s eyes go to Jason Todd, but hey, green eyes. Okay…

“He could still be hurt,” Batman without the suit is saying to his sons, “or moving into sepsis.”

“We need to get in there, that’s the point.” Jason is saying, already eyes the vents and the stairs up to the top floor.

Damian is moving the windows, assessing the security measures. Dick Grayson going to the computer system to check the protocols for lockdown. Kon is just _staring_ , his eyes moving from one Bat to the others.

“Ah… I could com him if you wanted,” but Kon has a whole lot of _feeling_ this will do nothing to the ‘break the Tower to get to Red’ plan already forming with the Batfam. “He’s probably not going to answer, but…he’ll be able to hear you.”

The four converge as a group, standing together with a purpose. Batman gives him a nod.

Kon hits the intercom and very pointedly walks to the elevator.

In turn, each of the family say their piece, keeping it short but heartfelt, wanting to say _so much more_ but not until it can be said in person.

Damian goes last, his whole body taunt, but the words come so easy, easier than he might have imaged.

“—and I…Drake, I want to be that man, the one that can also call you brother. I…am sorry I did not believe in you before. I am _sorry_ I could not take you at your word, that I did not realize…” And the kid’s voice shakes just enough for Dick to gently lay a hand to his shoulder. “This…this is why we are here, now. We have…a request of you. Only, Timothy, hear us out on this. Please…just give us this opportunity to _talk_.”

And who knows what happens in that perch or what might have been going on because in Jason Todd’s mind, he sees the whip out of his peripheral, sees himself beating up a teenage _kid_ that idolized him; Damian Wayne fears the worst, that they may be too late and the gun he’s seen in those hands has already done the job; Dick Grayson hates himself for failing his little brother so completely, letting things like his very “unbrotherly” feelings freak him out enough that he pushed the kid he’s loved for years further down the line into someone that didn’t even care if he lived or died. And Bruce Wayne, the Batman, has a mixture of all these things churning in his gut, angry that he’s failed the Robin he swore he wouldn’t, worried that this suicidal tendency may have reared up quickly, before anyone could _save_ _his_ _son_ , and staunch determination that should Tim give them this chance, it would never happen to him, _to any of them_ again. He and the Batman would bust ass to make sure their family stayed together.

However, for whatever reason (maybe the Tim Drake of this world just believes this is an intel run and the bullshit is lip service to get into his perch), the gender neutral voice cuts across the room stifling in regret and renewed purpose:

“ _Lock-down withdrawn_.”

The four Bats look at one another before Jason Todd picks up the pizzas and gives a nod to the stairs. With determination, something just as important as the mission, they move as a single unit to go upstairs and start the road to win back a son and a brother.

**

Epilogue: A year later.

"All right. That's the last of it."

The cadence just cuts right through his concentration and the screwdriver slips enough to snag his finger.

"Ow, fuck." He shoves the digit in his mouth, straightening up from the motherboards and circuitry in front of him. His spine emits a series of cracks as a testament to how long he's been hunched over.

The bigger hand in his vision pulls his hand up, and B looks at the finger clinically before giving it back.

"I've seen you with worse," the Bat shrugs, looking much younger in a grease stained T-shirt and sweats, dark smudges all over his face and forearms.

Tim just quirks a brow, "ditto, you know." He stands up from the workbench and turns to look at the sleek ride still up on ramps, and…damn, he is impressed.

"Wow…I still can't believe that used to be the Red Bird."

B follows a pace behind him while Tim walks around the ghost of his old work car, impressed with the new look and feel, the new design, the hard work, thought, and effort B apparently put into it.

"You can still call it the Red Bird, Tim. It's yours you know."

And, yeah. They'd had this particular conversation months ago, a topic out of nowhere when B started on about motherboards and how much he hated Nav systems.

Tim had graciously offered to reprogram the BatMobile if it got fried. B told him he was remodeling the Red Bird for his Red Robin persona, adding more toys and height (since, well, growth spurt), and Tim had just stared. When he brought the damn thing back to the Cave almost two years ago, he’d assumed B would want it for Dami, the new Robin. He’d never thought this would be a _thing_.

_“You need a work car again.”_

_“I ride the Ducati, nor do I have one with the Titans, B.”_

_“The Ducati cannot have autopilot to get you to one of us or the Cave if you get injured. You **need** a car, Tim. Also, the mass of your Titans can  **fly** , I know they can get you somewhere faster than a car."_

_“_ _Oh. Ah, well—“_

_“It doesn’t have to be the Red Bird. I can build one from scratch if—“_

_“Not the issue, B. Dami—“_

_“I built the Red Bird for **you** , not for Damian.”_

_“I see. Then…I guess I’m going to wire the motherboards for it.”_

_“Glad you see reason. I would do it myself, but you would just reprogram it anyway. Might as well fix it to your specs in the first place.”_

_“Sound plan.”_

In the here and now, well, the car is a whole lot of new and old rolled up into one, and Bruce is watching his expression to make sure he’s genuinely pleased. He is.

“All right, break time you two!” Dick is in the doorway when they turn, his grin wide. “That’s enough blowing shit up before patrol. Alfred made _pizza_.” And oh yeah, there’s a whole lot of reverence in Dick’s tone because _Alfred pizza_ is next to mana (ask Cassie, she’ll totally vouch).

B arches a brow, “we blow things up for testing purposes, Dick. That’s it.”

“Uh-hu, like I would ever really believe that, Bruce.”

“You never complain when Jason does it.”

“He has special needs. Trying to be supportive here.”

“I see.” And no, he and B aren’t exchanging glances and biting their lips to not laugh. Nope, not laughing at Dick’s silly ass.

And as they follow him, still talking about the car, they aren’t laughing at his hysterical antics of flipping behind them just to goose the two into walking faster through the Cave because _Alfred pizza_ (dammit, Dick, don’t grab my ass in front of—oh, well, grabbing his ass too kind of makes that moot) _._ When they hit the main area, Jason is standing from his work bench, stretching, and Dami finishing up the last pages of the new case file, the one of which Tim will be drilling him on later when they hit the rooftops to do the leg work. They, as well, obviously got the call (and if Jason’s eyes are a little softer when they fall on him, well, he just hopes B still hasn’t noticed because wouldn’t that be _awkward,_ both older sons…?).

But Dick doesn’t stop for a second, herding the lot of them toward the big steps…when B freezes in mid-step, his head snap around, and the rest of them freeze. The charge in the air is electric, and _holy shit, get ready for whatever the fuck might be coming_ takes hold of all the Bats, the four scattering with speed and precision, with knowledge of how the others fight and where the weaknesses may be. They move as a team.

The short list slightly comes into play as Tim calculates what the hell might be happening, hands tightening on the bow with a whole lot of tricks in the other.

But…

“Fucking **_WHAT_**?”

Tumbling on the Cave floor, the four other Bats are smashing the shit out of each other.

“Get off!”

“Ow, ow, ow. God, you’re _heavy_. What the hell are you _eating_?”

“Smart ass, that’s my _bo_.”

“Don’t believe you,” in a sing-song tone.

“Robin, I want to keep my liver. Move your elbow.”

“I swear, I _cannot take you three anywhere_!” The shortest, dressed in a version of the Red Robin costume, shoves himself up through the other three bodies to get to his feet and look around.

Tim’s mouth falls open, eyes HUGE. “No. Way.”

The other Red Hood perks up from straddling a Nightwing with accents of red rather than blue. “Hey! We might have made it, Big Wing! I think that’s the same Timmers!”

“Of course we made it,” the other Red Robin is probably rolling his eyes behind that domino, “I checked the coordinates three times. This is the right place.”

Tim holds his bo out in front of him, “what was the code used to reprogram the whirlybirds?”

“Pfft,” Red crosses his arms over his chest and rattles off an impressive array of numbers.

“Correct,” Tim slowly relaxes, his bo vanishing somewhere, even in civvies. “Wow, welcome back.”

His Jason, Dami, Dick, and B relax in degrees as the Other Bats make their way across the Cave floor to greet him, pulling off dominos and helmets (that Jason’s eyes are still blue…but, well, so are _his_ Jason’s now). The three tallest pick him up like a damn stuffed animal for hugs and laughter while their Red grins up at him.

“So? How is world building?”

“The main cities are all up and running,” the other Dick with the new Nightwing costume smiles down at him and just, yeah, yeah he can see the guy is doing well. “The outlands are still somewhat problematic, but the JLA and other teams are still working on it. The world is…brighter.”

“Much of the population has been restored as the ships were mainly full of _survivors_ ,” old Dami is just looking down at him, surpassing even this world’s Tim Drake in height (sigh, matter of time).

“And those alien assholes are in a whole bunch of trouble with big space counsel or whatever for invading our world,” Jason adds, “so natch, they’re in some far away space prison serving out a millennia or some shit.”

And Tim, his eyes slide to his Jason, feeling the palm of the hand against the small of his back while his Dick stands a little too close to his shoulder on the other side ( _please, you two, we’re not trying to give B an ulcer here, World’s Greatest Detective, remember?_ But, of course they don’t give a shit anyway) while Damian puts himself in front of Tim to listen as well. Just…just _these guys_ , right?

“I hope they rot,” his Jason answers with a smirk.

The other one returns the look, “me too, guy. Fuck their mind shit.”

It’s so nice the two can share a fist bump over invading aliens and a whole lot of ass kicking. Really. Just, bonding things.

“Sir. Lunch is ready.” Alfred calls down from the top of the stairs and gets an eye full of Multi-Bats. “Hm. Seems I shall need to make more pizza. Very good then. Pepperoni and mushrooms for Master Jason, pineapple, ham, and olives for Master Timothy, Vegetables for Master Damian, and jalapenos, sausage, and tomatoes for Master Dick?”

The other Bats just _stare_ , “Alfred, you are so _the man_. Doesn’t matter which universe.”

“Of course, Master Jason the second. I will begin preparations immediately. Do wash up before dinner.”

The snickers and exchanged glances are well met. B waves them on up the big steps, wanting to hear all about the rebuild effort as well as any assistance they may still need while the two Damians share a tight nod and walk side-by-side (the Robin costume closer to his Dami’s now, hooded cloak, different boots and tights), both Jasons are exchanging dead Robin jokes ( _you morbid fuckers, get over it_ ), and his Dick pats him gently on the ass with a wink where no one but the other Dick can see. He and the other Dick Grayson have a few spare minutes with the ruckus heading upstairs.

And those eyes…Tim sighs a little, happy with the result.

“Are you okay?” The hands come up to his arms, gripping lightly. “We came back in case…they weren’t good to you. If you wanted…well, you know already.”

But he smiles widely, his eyes full of fondness and mirth. “I know,” and he reaches up, thumb swiping over that jaw, one that his hands have already memorized from a whole lot of nights and mornings. “I appreciate it, really, but we’re, ah, we’re good.”

The implications are there in the way his face heats a little, going somewhat pink at the revelation. The other Dick suddenly smiles and throws back his head to laugh with the same cadence his Dick does, and God, it’s so good to know this man can laugh like that again.

“I’m so…relieved.” When he calms a little, this Dick leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Damn, I’m relieved.”

“It…I didn’t make it easy on them, you know? Any of them. My team and I might have punked them a few times in the interim.” He shrugs with a grin, “totally worth it.”

Dick turns him with a hand still on his arm, walking with him to the big stairs. “I want to hear _all_ about it. I hope you made them suffer.”

And as the two exchange an evil grin, eyes twinkling in shared mirth, the Dick and Jason from this world are waiting at the top of the steps for him, their eyes soft and warm, and just, shit, life…life is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Dami’s little “we have a request for you” is supposed to (kind of, maybe?) intersect with “Coffee” if anyone is wondering where that comes it. And now… I’m going to die for a few days and get back to Fracture as well as Forward Momentum. Hope this was a nice little diversion for you too ;)
> 
> Feel free to me how your opinions and whatnot, you know I'm all about it.


	6. Night Call II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jay/Tim Stripper AU continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't blame me. Charlion_Em wanted more.

Good nights can turn into bad nights, just a snap, and someone’s gotta go out on a stretcher.

Jase is going to have one of those nights.

See, sometimes the club gets filled with the funny kind of customers, the ones that don’t know these things called _boundaries_. Sure, some of the dancers have little-to-none since they’re in the game for more green than wiggling your ass around a stage can make; Babs and Dick knew all about it, knew if it happened in the bathrooms or the _special_ booths for “private” dances, then they could try to protect their guys as much as possible. Once a dancer went out the door for the night, without or without a _date_ , they couldn’t do shit; the ass-shaker was on his own.

But the _point_ , is that these walking ATMs get _spoiled_ , thinking they’re somebody, that they can just walk through the club and up to a dancer like eye fucking him in a crowd of a hundred other up-and-coming cocksuckers already means, “that piece of ass is _mine_ and I’m going to take it.”

So then, Jason and the boys have to get out the old school board of education and teach some ignorant motherfuckers a lesson on what’s considered polite behavior.

Tonight, as he could have predicted, it’s Robin gaining the unnecessary attention from some very bad looking men crowding him in one of the shadowy back corners when he was probably hitting the john or something.

“Jase,” Johnny-boy hit him up with a shoulder nudge, “the kid.”

“Shit.”

“Thought you might want to take it,” said as though he would just as well wade in that little _meeting_ and discuss the rhetoric of manners with the asshole’s nut sack gripped in a fist since that kind of thing made a guy pay the fuck attention.

“You know I want in on that,” he answers without a pause, already turning away from the main stage, “keep a lookit on the douche bag in the corner. He smacks Jailbait on the ass one more time, you introduce him to the broad side of your kneecap, then the door.”

Johnny just salutes him with two fingers, eyes moving to the corner booth of said douche bag and the lean, lithe nineteen year old kid not long enough in the life to know what kind of shit he doesn’t need to put up with; taking off yer clothes for money doesn’t make you a whore, and even if you’re whoring, you got a right to not be touched if you don’t wanna be. Them’s the breaks whether you like it or you don’t. On his way to the back, Jase makes a mental note to have a word with Dick so those little nuances of the job can be made more clear to that kid before he really gets his ass in a sling.

**

And this isn’t the first time he’s been inappropriately propositioned; oddly enough, the last time was after a board meeting by an incredibly creepy shareholder, Mr. al Ghul, a man probably old enough to be his Grandfather with the spry attitude of a man half his age, and a disturbing light in his eye whenever they are alone for longer than five minutes. The man didn’t like being told _no_ , and even less being told repeatedly as most the elite who are very accustomed to getting what they _want_. However, slapping the offer from S.T.A.R. Industries on his desk last month seemed to have done the trick. As far as CEOs go, he’s a rare commodity, not even twenty and two years into running a world-wide powerhouse of a company with his genius and talent alone. Sure, Mr. Wayne appointed him as an emancipated minor back when his parents were nothing less than horrific examples of why some people shouldn’t have children, but he’s kept making money and connections, leading the company into the future. It was simply a matter of reminding Mr. al Ghul of the flexibility of the job market. Of course, the older man seemed to realize the same thing when told in no uncertain terms there’s always some other place to go.

This kind of propositioning, however, one without vaguely, veiled threats against his career, but more toward the bodily injury type, aren’t his usual problem (only occasionally when he’s been here one too many nights in a row to feed this damning addiction, the need for _release_ ). However, he does _not_ need unwanted attention—the fact that he _knows_ these assholes in his other, more professional life, is just a prime example of his terrible fucking luck.

“C’mon baby, you don’t need to be shy.” The Vice President of WE’s Research and Development, Michael McCannon croons at him with a slightly evil grin. “We’ll do right by you…if _you_ do right by _us_.”

The blonde on his right is also someone, one of the city’s elite sons (one that has smoozed with the CEO of WE at more parties than he can recall) being groomed to take over something or other, “we’ve been _waiting_ for you to come back. Just an hour. Give us an hour, and we’ll give you _heaven_.”

The brunette also in on this little party doesn’t have to say a word; everything he wants is in his eyes, the posture of his body, the slight tent in his trousers. He’s the one to look out for, the one that obviously prefers willing but might not care if it’s a requirement. His tongue comes out to lick around his lips, eyes raking over the straight-backed dancer with obvious want.

_Ew._ No thanks, but if he says a whole of _anything_ , they might peg him for who he is. He has to hope the touch-me-and-I-will-permanently-injure-you vibe is being received loud and clear just by the way he’s sneers and meets their eyes. Not that he’s worried; no, he’s usually a man that always has a plan. His eyes narrow behind the mask, waiting for one of them to reach out, to grab him, to try and out-muscle him because then, the fight is on.

Abruptly, his visual is blocked by the taller, bulkier form of Jason, head bouncer and _god damned_ extrodinaire, stepping right in front of him to face down the VP and his two friends with green eyes that fairly _glowed_.

“I would _hate_ letting the press know any of our guests are being so rude to a guy like this,” just as smooth as can be, like butter won’t melt in his mouth. “I mean, it ain’t often we get some fancy clientele like this, boys, but I’m sure they’d love to talk _all about it_ if I had to rough you three up a little before I threw you out on your asses for being _inappropriate_.”

And, he can’t even help himself as his eyes trace the outline of those shoulders and back through the club’s t-shirt, come back up the strong lines of neck, tendons, and fuzzy red hair buzzed short at the nape and the longer back and top oddly soft-looking. A breath escapes him, his eyes close, and against his better judgement, he shuffles just a few inches closer, close enough to get a hint of scent, musky, wild, and…

The guy known here as Robin swallows a little, eyes moving up the line of Jason’s spine and his damn palms _itch_.

With a smirk, the panicked little assholes are already _out_ because if there’s one thing Jason Todd doesn’t do, it’s bluff. When he means to deliver an ass kicking, you better take that shit to the bank and cash it to pay for the hospital bill. When he says he’s gonna go to the press and call Wayne Enterprises VP a dirty, perverted, sex offender, well, you best check tomorrow’s headlines (since he’s pretty tight with a few reporter, including good old Clark and Lo from Metropolis that just _love_ some down n’ dirty once and a while to give ‘em something different to dig their teeth into).

He turns, mouth already open to berate Robin for getting out of sight (since we’ve already learned this _lesson_ asshole, stay where one of my guys can _see_ you) and apparently forgetting that the bouncers are _supposed_ to make sure shit like this didn’t happen... and he’s looking down at those burning blue eyes with the mask outlining them and his breath rushes out, shaky.

And Jase, he’s a man that knows all about the art of attraction, the progression of seduction in that _why don’t we get out of here and fuck?_ kind of way since he’s a man that don’t believe in beating around the bush when it comes to things he wants.  He’s never found it difficult to fill his bed when the urge strikes, or when the right combination of circumstances make the situation ideal. He has no fake notions about anything other than he’s a pretty well-built, good-looking type that makes a one night stand more appealing than the average dude. He’s not the _bring it home to mommy and daddy_ type, or the _let’s pick out some China and furniture_ type; never been a problem since his own smattering of peace consists of himself, maybe a six pack of the good stuff, and something good in the paperback variety.

And tonight, just by looking down a little into those _eyes_ gives him a notion that tonight isn’t going to be time to get deep with Plato’s _Republic_. Nope. Tonight should be about a whole different kind of deep.

“Never cease to get me, Robin,” Jason is aware of saying, “much as you know better, here you are in my blindspot.”

The low laugh is almost lost in the pounding rhythm not far from them, down that little bit of feet-worn hall, separating them from a whole different kind of world where these looks, this connection, this _magnetism_ would be another type of show to put on.

“I should learn,” the admittance is low, “to keep in sight of you.” And this man, _this_ man with his surprise visits and crazy disappearing skills, is breathing as hard as he is, not breaking the connecting gaze even when Jase finds himself taking in that slightly parted mouth with renewed interest.

“Playing with something dangerous, Baby Bird,” Jason breathes just loud enough to hear. “Think I’m not interested?”

“Hope is a tricky thing,” the other draws, head tilted back to give Jason the full weight of those _eyes_.

And the bouncer is the one stepping closer, hands moving up to trap the side of Robin’s neck in one broad palm, taking in the involuntary shudder with a slowly knowing smirk.

“Hope ain’t what you need with me, just a little bit of luck,” and he’s already lost, isn’t he? The second he ducks his head enough to slant their mouths together in just the right way, just enough pressure, just enough _heat_.

Jason’s other hand comes up to the wall behind them, caging the smaller man in when the lips part and _slick_ , _wet_ takes the weight in his belly up the terribly painful notch.

And Robin has less than a few brain cells left to calculate the _very bad_ in this idea; too many variables should dissuade him from this, from allowing himself the luxury of attraction and want and need while he’s wearing the mask, supposed to be someone _else_ without responsibilities and the weight of the public eye.

Maybe it was being on stage, maybe it was the utter desperation that drove him here tonight. Maybe he’s gone too long being a man in a whole different type of mask. Regardless, he’s spanning his own hands over the sides of Jason’s throat, thumbs against the soft shadow of beard against the cheeks, turning so he can have a new angle, a deeper penetration for his tongue. So he can have more taste and touch.

“Not here,” finally able to pull back, Jason’s eyes are like fire, burning him wherever that gaze touches. “Out back, ten minutes.”

Still breathing hard, Robin bites his lower lip, ignoring those eyes going to the motion before he nods his assent and ducks under the arm to get backstage. He needed his shirt, and he needs it _now_.

Jason on the other hand, goes right to Babs, time ticking. She seems startled at the abrupt _heads-up, I’m out, plenty of my guys to keep an eye_. She waves him away without a second thought, blinking up with a hesitant concern, but if there’s anyone he doesn’t need giving the deets, it’s Babs, who will tell Dick, who will tell _everyone_ and that is a whole lot of keeping pleasure out of business when possible.

His favorite leather, and Robin is waiting for him against the back door already, still masked, hood pulled up over his hair, and those eyes just stand out more against his lashes and pale skin. Nothing more delectable than a guy that can hold his own, even if he short and stacked, all grace and lean muscle.

Jase doesn’t wait a beat, free arm around the waist to pull Robin against the front of his body and take another taste of that mouth, to get a hint of coffee, mints, and something unbearably clean.

“Fuck,” in a deep voice against his mouth, “Jason, fuck.”

“Gonna get there, Robin,” he jokes low, taking in the shudder working its way up the shorter man’s spine again, pressing his thigh against the half-hard erection in the guy’s jeans and just… _fuck_.

In one motion, Robin is turning as Jason releases him, opening the door into the cool, damp air of the night.

**

Clinging to the bouncer on the back of his motorcycle doesn’t help the obvious problem in his pants or watching the sweet movement of that supple ass in the worn jeans while they take the stairs up to the second floor. Really, nothing helps. The smell of leather and cigarette smoke, musk and wild, all of it wraps around his senses while that hand around his wrist anchors him in the moment, the thumb making lazy circles against the pulse.

And because he is who he is, Robin catches glimpses of the tidy (more than he would imagine) apartment, comfortable with a towering bookshelf full of dog-eared editions, the worn couch, with an empty tumbler that might have been a Scotch or Bourbon remnant.

He already has an arm out of his hoodie when the bedroom door is open and Jason drops the twin helmets on the floor, closing the door, backing Robin against it. It’s the smaller man rising up on his toes this time, one hand carding up to find out if that fall of red hair tinged with white in a place is just as soft as it looked under the club’s dim lights.

_Yes, yes it is_ , while he pulls back from that mouth, tilts Jason just enough to get his mouth on the big pulse in his throat, to smell and taste the salt of skin, the utter delicacy of intimate spots as that mouth falls open and the bigger man groans against his own chest, against this hands that have found their way up under the t-shirt to trace the muscles and old scars.

“Easy, easy,” the older man breathes against him, “slow down. We got all night, Baby Bird, and I’m not in any kind of rush.” Because, damn, he’s shaking a little, getting so turned on it’s almost _pain_ …

“Been…a long time,” Robin admits in a husky whisper, hands stilling, face still in the niche between the bouncer’s neck and shoulder.

“S’okay, don’t mean we can’t make it good.”

His laugh is lost in the air over Jason’s shoulder as the leather slides away with a soft sigh.

“And we can go again and again, Baby Bird. Seems like we both have an itch to scratch.”

“You have no idea,” the shorter man replies without elaboration, but damn his hands move against, mapping out the curve of abs, sides, the pectorals and hard little nipples adorning them, making Jason shudder all on his own.

He ends up on his back, shirtless with the seams of his jeans still pressing too harsh, sinking into Jason’s bed in degrees while his body comes apart with those rough hands skimming over him, that mouth, lips and tongue lazily making tracks over his skin, making his arch and pant, tighten and soften at the same time.

At some point he’s flipped them over (all that skin and bare and _God_ ), giving back as good as he got, sucking along Jason’s ribcage to make the older man twitch and the tendons in his neck strain. Between the older man’s thighs, his forearms work under them to lift the lower half up, let him lean over slightly to mouth at the lines right above the waistband of denim, dip his tongue in to catch the curve of hip until those green eyes are as hot as he feels in the act.

And finally, _finally_ , the clothing is gone, just skin sliding uninhibited, hips working against one another, Robin’s legs around Jason’s waist, rutting against him, chasing the finale with shaky determination.

And the litany of praise and curses coming from the bigger man, braced palms on either side of Robin’s shoulders, arms locked to keep him up while he rolls his hips sinfully, sensually, his own pace of erotic while Robin watches with those blue, blue eyes narrowed with the pressure and pleasure until Jason leans down, stifles himself in the warm wet of lips gliding, tongues meeting and sliding together.

“Close. Fuck, Jase, I’m close,” Robin manages while Jason slides down to mouth his throat and collar bone, to taste the meaty beat of his quickening pulse under skin.

“Me too, baby, me too. Round two after this.”

“Yes…” hissed out when lips and tongue _suck_. “You can…open me up. Take me. I _need_ —”

The hips over his stutter an important second before continuing, “in for it now, Baby Bird. One night—“ and he moans when Robin arches up, crying out, “s’not gonna be enough.”


	7. Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the Fractured Verse, Dick Grayson's sixth sense really should be used for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A while ago during one of our usual idea sessions, Arkeadia made mention of wanting sick Timmy and super coddly Bats. Well, as far as it goes (or as far as Tim will let them), I think this is accurate.

Fuck. Just, fuck. His joints ache, body tingly cold, and Tim starts cursing before he even gets to the roof. He’s probably already fevering and _dammit_ , _he would be in Gotham when this hits._ Not only in Gotham, but the Bats know he’s here and are trying to make nice. He’s good at hiding, good at acting, **but** because he’s actually in proximity, it might set off Dick’s innate ability to know when any of the Bats feel like shit (seriously, that guy has some kind of sixth sense and he really needs to use his powers for good and not to be a righteous _pain in the ass_ ). No voice modification, no carefully worded email, no excuses, **_nothing_** could circumvent Dick Grayson’s _Mother-Hen_ instinct except _running like hell_.

Opening the window, Tim pretty much just falls in when a cough rouses from his chest and take a few important breaths to work out. At least he still keeps high dose antibiotics in pretty much every safe house for when this shit does strike because, really, not having a spleen makes illness and infections worse (and causes those phantom pains at random times _since it’s pulled a Houdini already_ ) and he’s got to get started on the regimen now (probably should have started on it before he left San Fran. Oops).

It’s fine, he’s dealt with this for years, kept himself in the best potential shape to keep from getting too bad (eating better, _Dick_ ), treating injuries as fast as possible, keeping himself moving; but, it’s been a long month of constant running, and his body has probably had enough of his shit to take him out of the game for a few days.

He staggers to the bedroom, forcing himself to get steady enough to find his stash of high dose antibiotics and get in a hot shower before he passes out for a few hours. If he’s lucky, he might still have a few bags of IV fluids.

His work cell goes off, vibrating against his chest inside the harness’s compartment.

_Yup. Fuck his sixth sense_. He shoves the cowl off and makes one hell of a last-ditch effort, “Red.”

“Where the **_fuck_** are you?”

_Not what I expected._ The tightly coiled anger in Dick’s quiet, barely controlled tone (the two of them in the Cave a lifetime ago, Dick advancing and that look in his eyes, like he’d never met the guy before…) makes a shiver run down Tim’s spine; he takes an important second to let the former Dark Knight calm down before the human tornado just gives up and comes to beat down Tim’s front door.

“ ** _Tim_**.” _Answer me_ is left unsaid but very well understood.

If he just hangs up the phone right now, he’ll have broken windows, a busted garage door, and who knew what else to deal with when all he wants to do is just pass the hell out for a few days. He could get down to the cars in the basement storage but that would mean _driving_ and just, shit. He already knows he’s in no state to operate heavy machinery or, you know, fly over more than thirteen stories—thus back in the Perch early.

“Dick, you already know I’m in Gotham.” _You saw me twenty minutes ago, asshat_. “What do you need?” Since he isn’t getting his shower any time soon, Tim just sits (falls) on the edge of his bed with his forehead in his hand.

“I need to know you’re not going to throw your _dumb ass_ in front of a firing squad again because, you know, Tim, _my fucking blood pressure_. Jesus, man. You almost—“ Just incredibly pissed and indignant over a _vigilante that puts himself in harm’s way to save someone_ , just, really Dick? Really?

The laugh that comes out of him ends in coughing, so he holds the phone away by his leg to muffle the worst of it. “You’re kidding me.” He wheezes once he can breathe, “You’re pissed about that? Dick, it’s late. I’m getting a shower and going to bed.”

The older man sputters for a second and would be just hilarious if Tim was his normal one hundred percent, “ _Pissed about that?!_ Yes, I’m **pissed about that** , Tim, and why the _hell_ are you coughing so hard?”

_Shit_. “Allergies, so I’m getting a shower, taking some Benadryl, and going to bed. G’Night.”

“Tim.” And there’s a wealth of meaning right there.

“Nope.” Tim pops out the ‘p.’ “Not your turn for patrol, Hood’s next on the list. See you next time I’m in Gotham, ‘kay?”

“Tim!”

“It’ll be dawn soon and the Bats need to chill for the day. Seriously, I’m tight.”

The sigh on the other end is pretty much _do I believe you or don’t I?_ So rude.

“Bye Dick, see you next week.”  Tim turns the phone off completely and shoves himself up to start pulling pieces of the suit off, making his way to the closet to just toss them in willy nilly (because there’s always time for clean-up later when he doesn’t feel like ass).

In just boxers, he roots around the medicine closet for about five minutes before the secret hidey hole (not a secret anymore, Bruce knew it was there, didn’t he? Time to make another one maybe…but the doubt is there because, well, what if one of them was here when he needed something? Besides, _Bats_. Jason would just break-in and look until he found it anyway) in the back finally gives way under his fingernails. The horse pills taste terrible swallowed dry.

A hot shower and he’s not shivering anymore; a little more hunting he actually _does_ have an extra IV bag (score) of fluids that will go a long way.  He glances at his work system in the living room and just sighs with regret since working with the IV in his arm is uncomfortable and he just doesn’t _feel_ like doing the report right now. Instead, he sets up the IV pole by the couch and warms up his flat screen to watch some terrible late B-Movie nightmare on the Sci-Fi channel while he gets the fluid in his body; then, if he feels somewhat capable of doing more than slump, he could work a few hours before getting some real sleep. Solid plan.

He hangs the bag after a careful check, sets out the needle and tubing, and makes a pot of coffee, commercials playing background white noise. He pulls out take-out soup, and a handful of fresh veggies. The soup goes in the microwave, he washes and sloppily chops up the zucchini, squash, and carrots, puts them in another bowl. He’ll handle dishes later, after the bag is gone because the ache in his joints is pretty much getting worse, his stomach growling, and the cough wells up in his lungs again.

_Better not be pneumonia_ , he wraps a throw around himself like a make shift cape and cowl and swabs his forearm with an alcohol wipe before sliding the needle home. The feed opens wide and he fumbles for the soup with the other hand, folding his legs to make a pocket for the bowl to sit.

_Sharknado_ is about half-way through, and Tim’s eyes half-mast with the least amount of shits given to report writing when he picks up the almost silent sound of his window sill sliding open and _he is going to add an electric shock to that shit if they don’t stop fucking with his security system._ A little over an hour and he thought he was home free. Dammit, _sixth sense_. He closes his eyes and sighs.

The white out lenses of Dick’s domino narrow from across the room before he’s even got the window all the way up. The guy isn’t even all the way in when Tim throws up a hand, finger pointing right at him,

“I said it wasn’t your turn, asshole.”

Fuck, the Batman is stepping in behind Nightwing with his cape held back with a forearm so he doesn’t trip all over it (yeah, he was the first R that had to learn that trick, right?).

Said asshole throws up both hands in exasperation, “you sounded like a dying emu on the phone and you think I’m really _not_ going to show up? Have we even _met before_?” Dick pulls off his domino and Bruce deactivates the cowl, striding around his oldest son to check the almost empty IV bag.

Bruce, calmly looks down, one brow cocked and waits and well… faced with the evidence right there, lying would be exceptionally pointless right now, wouldn’t it?

“Fluids, antibiotics. It’s take care of.” Tim fills in and goes back to his movie, ignoring the hulking vigilantes standing over him.

And Dick seems to freeze, “oh shit. The not having a spleen thing.”

Tim closes his eyes, counts to ten, and just sighs through his nose since down playing this is apparently not in the cards.

Dick doesn’t even notice (or care) but pulls up the skin tight sleeve of his suit, coming forward to lay his bare forearms on Tim’s face.  And this guy just, _really?_ Tim just laughs without mirth, pulling away from Dick’s arm, “yeah. I’ve dealt with it fine, Dick. More preparation needed, that’s all.”

Bruce opens his mouth to start in on _something_ , but hey, _you know what B? We all get this shtick honest_. And Tim just cuts the older man off _at the knees_. “It doesn’t make me a liability or effect my performance in the field, nor with my team,” Tim feels the overwhelming need to remind him, eyes narrow, daring the Bat to say differently. “I _handle_ it.”

 

Bruce crouches down, puts himself at Tim’s level on the couch. “I didn’t say anything to that effect, Tim. And I’m sure as hell not thinking it either. Want to tell me how long you’ve felt this bad?”

“How was patrol, dear? Did you have to break someone’s face tonight?” He says instead, fluttering his eyes.

Bruce is not amused while Dick snickers into his glove, eyes dancing a little with mirth while he, too, eyes the IV bag, trying to cover up the fact he’s looking around for any more medicines, bloody gauze, and whatever else would signal _get this guy’s ass back to the Manor for some major coddling_. Nope, no thanks, he’s got it. Take a pill.

 

“Tell you what,” he turns back to his movie, “one of you be my hero and get me a cup of coffee, and I’ll let you check my vitals before you go _back to the Cave_ for the night.  That’s totally fair.” He gestures to the IV because he doesn’t want to have to move it to get up, not with two world-saving superheroes already just _here_.

 

“Agreed,” Bruce is already standing, but Dick’s the one moving in the kitchen, the Nightwing costume soaking in the dim light. 

Bruce just removes the gauntlets and gloves with a sigh, taking his pulse with two careful fingers and feeling his lymph nodes; Dick sets the mug directly in Tim’s hand, eyes also going to the IV taped in his forearm before he finds the other end of the couch, leaning back against the arm to he can see Tim’s face.

Tim sips and smiles a little to himself because, yeah, it’s pretty darn good.  Like, almost how Jason makes his coffee.

“Okay, when did the symptoms start?”

Tim’s eyes dart away, and Bruce moves to sit on the coffee table in front of him instead, waiting. Proximity is Bruce’s thing and he’s not afraid to use it, getting right up in your space until you cave like a good interrogatee.

“It’s okay,” Dick says suddenly, “for you to tell us.”

His laugh is creepily without humor, almost angry because, yeah. For a while there, it wasn’t really okay for him to tell them a whole bunch of anything, and it was _fine_ , okay? No need to go into all that from the past when he would huddle in on himself in the perch and feel like nothing short of _fucked_ , keeping the Titans out had been close, but, well, he figured out how to make protocols and excuses, hack the sensors and recalibrate so only the upmost extremes would register, how to keep them from worrying about him by hiding, deflecting, pretending. It became part of who he had to be, for the team and the Bats. It had been just another adjustment to make in the whole giving up the safety net thing.

That laugh makes the two Bats exchange a look while Tim just rubs the bridge of his nose, thinking about how much he can realistically tell them without bringing down some heavy effects.

“Started feeling run down with the usual Wednesdays, dealing with Ra’s bullshit,” he admits grudgingly since, well, best way to throw the Bats off is to mix the truth with a little bit of a lie. Throws off the radar or something.

Bruce’s expression is smooth, giving nothing away (but anyone that’s been this guy’s partner already knows that plans are forming, get the fuck back). “Hm. Ra’s and I have had a discussion about who he’s supposed to be dealing with, and that isn’t _you_ anymore, Tim.”

_What now?_ His expression must have the same thing on it since Bruce’s smirk is a little too close to angry, and, well, the Batman doesn’t get angry very often does he?

“He almost got you killed,” and there’s something very…dangerous in Bruce’s blue eyes right there, “pit you against the League’s enemy like you were one of his assassins. He used you like a pawn, and this is _very_ unacceptable.”

“But it okay because I crashed his organization, so really—“

“No,” and the older man draws the word out, “it’s very _not_ okay. You go up against the Rogue Gallery on your own, and I understand that; you have the history, skill, talent, and what you need to win. Ra’s, however, has an _army_ behind him, Tim. He’s not the Joker with fifteen or twenty thugs and his own brand of insanity. Ra’s has people all over the world, people that can find you wherever you are, that know _who_ you are, and _where_ you are. If you deal with Ra’s, you call me first from now on. I do _not_ want this fight against the Council of Spiders to happen again without backing you up.”

“He also kicked you out a window,” Dick interjects, suddenly on this serious mentor train all of a sudden. “You were unconscious and _falling_ Tim. We’re lucky, _damn lucky_ , I traced your signal because if I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t be _here_. So,” general hand wave, “ _not okay_.”

“I—“ and he knows he probably looks like an idiot because his mouth is working but nothing is coming out. “But…I had—“

“If you say you ‘had a plan,’ I am seriously going to call the Titans and tell them you’re sick.” Dick deadpans at him and just _no fucking thank-you_. The panic must be there because Dick just smiles at him.

“It…I…what else could I have done?!” He finally just breaks out with it, staring at his lap rather than the judgement probably in those expressions, “he was going to kill _everyone_ —“

The gloved hand is on the back of his neck shadow-fast, turning his gaze up. “You did what you had to at the time,” Bruce soothes, “you did the right thing at the time, believe me, I’m not criticizing. You were amazing, coordinating that kind of effort and outwitting him. But, what you need to _realize_ is that you no longer have to do any of that alone. Ra’s is not to attack you directly, or he’s going to get full-on Bat effort. Possibly even JLA intervention.”

Now his eyes are huge because the group of them could make anyone think _twice_.

“On another note…I’m sorry,” Bruce continues, completely unruffled, like the matter is just _settled_ , stop fucking with Ra’s and he’ll leave you alone, too (like that would ever realistically happen, but okay, B, keep believing). “You shouldn’t have gone through any of that alone, Tim.”

“I…but…you’re _here_ , aren’t you?” Tim replies, waving at the Batman sitting on his coffee table.

“I am.”

“Then worth it.” He shrugs a little, sniffling. “Too bad I didn’t get to see the look on his face when all those systems blew, though. That would have been totally stellar.”

The three of them share a laugh over it, and Bruce gives a final squeeze to the back of his neck before letting him go. Then his eyes move, exchanging a look with Dick (who gives an arched brow in the secret Bat language), and back to Tim. He nods gently to himself with that small smile usually reserved for when he’s feeling fond for Dick or Jason or Dami and stands, pulling his cell phone out of one of his pockets in the utility belt. He dials and starts pacing, cape a mesmerizing swish as he does.

Tim blinks at the complete lack of ‘ _you did **what again** for the League of Assassins?’_ while Bruce is apparently talking to Alfred about something important and bringing a change of _day_ clothes and later stopping to get some lasagna because that good Italian place is closer to Tim’s perch since lunch is still hours away, and by the way Alfred, did you know that Tim no longer is in possession of a crucial body part? Yes, yes, learn something new every day, but some good cough syrup with codeine would not be amiss, possibly tea. Oh, and Tim is now ill, Alfred, flu or possibly even _pneumonia_ , but without a spleen, how much worse could it possibly get?  

_Mother-hen instincts **on**_.

“Oh shit,” Tim whispers to himself when he realizes what’s going to happen here.

Dick is just grinning like an asshole, “we are so having a movie _day_. Epic. I’ve been waiting to watch the Marvel movies with Dami since for _ever_. And _you_ can bring the knowledgeable comic fan _smack down_ when he starts being a pain about it. Oh, oh! And Jay’ll come too if he knows you’re sick, oh man. Family day!” He’s completely ignoring Tim’s horrified look, just not even registering. Take into account it’s kind of watered down with red-rimmed eyes and coughing, there you go. “We can start with all the Iron Man movies, then the Captain Americas then the _Avengers_. Hell. Yes.”

“The only way to watch them is in chronological order,” Tim feels he needs to inform Dick of this even though he’s getting a little weak, light-headed at the thought of Alfred and Dami and Bruce and Dick and Jason all staying with him while he feels like ass.

Bruce finally hangs up and sits back down on the coffee table, calmly looking at Dick like _no big deal_ , “Alfred will be on his way with the boys. I’m sending the other car home.” The magic button on his utility belt engaged.

Dick just grins and bounces up, “I’ve got dibs on Tim’s shower, you can totally take the guest room one. Timmy, I’m stealing some of Jay’s clothes.”

“There’s –“ but he bites his tongue from saying there are clothes in the lower drawer meant to fit Dick because he’s just _staring_ while Nightwing’s ass sashays down his hallway to his bathroom and **fuck**.

When he comes back to it, Bruce is already looking at the empty IV bag and searching out a band-aid to take the needle out of his arm (but, he can do that himself, okay? You don’t need to, well, guess that answers that). The gloves and gauntlets are off, and Bruce parodies Dick by pressing the soft skin of his forearm against Tim’s forehead, humming. The line is out and dammit, he’s fine. He’s lived with it, taken care of it himself for a while now. No problem.

“This isn’t necessary, you know.” Tim feels like he’s got to inform, “spleen’s been gone for a while, so I handle it without any issues.” _Except that time…_

_Handle it alone_ , Bruce reads instead while looking down at his third son and a moment of memory wakes up. Bruce moves the arm to wrap his hand around the back of Tim’s neck again, this time pulling the younger man into his shoulder.

“I know you adapt to just about anything,” Bruce obediently soothes, “but we have rights as your family to be _concerned_ , Tim.”

He sighs, shallow to keep from coughing, but doesn’t pull out of the hold because the Bat suit is hella padded and comfy and his forehead fits just right there and it’s kind of okay...

Knocking makes him realize he’s closed his eyes, and Tim jerks up, not sure when he went from sitting on his couch to pretty much sitting on Dick’s fucking _lap_ and is scrambling to move away before Jason, Dami, and Alfred come through the door since _that would be embarrassing as hell_.

“Uh-uh,” the acrobat pretty much wrestles him back easier than he should, plopping Tim right back across his thighs and pulling the blanket back over both of them. “Al’s going to want to check you out and probably make grilled cheese sandwiches and soup.”

And…that actually sounded pretty good, but not while he’s laying all over Dick. For shit’s sake, he’s almost twenty and this is just _not necessary_ —

“Leggo,” he tries instead while the impending migraine starts behind his left ear.

“Nope!” Much too cheerfully, and yup, Dick’s wearing one of his old t-shirts and sweats that actually fit him and now he _knows_ Tim has clothes for him in the perch and he’s going to get all _Dick_ about it and shit…he’s too tired for a Bat-Invasion right now.

The knocking starts up again but his valiant attempt to get the hell up is thwarted by engaged octopus hold.

“It’s open!” Dick calls, seemingly to have more arms than humanly possible.

Jason is the first through, carrying Alfred’s own mobile medic kit, and another bag that probably had clothes in it for B (…he has clothes in the drawer above Jason’s, but that could come out later since it was really stupid of him to _plan_ for it). Dami is carrying two coolers and another medical bag by the looks of it with Alfred bringing up the rear, already taking his hat off and working at the cuff of his shirt.

All three pause when they catch the scene, Tim still struggling to get off Dick’s lap, teeth bared in a snarl. The empty IV bad and tubing is still on the coffee table from where B must have left it out probably so Alfred would just _see it there_ , and shit. Just shit. Whatever else they might be seeing makes something very _pointed_ snap in Alfred Pennyworth; his spine immediately straightens and the expression that comes over the kindly face is one only reserved for Bruce when he is at his upmost stubborn. It is the first hint that _things will be happening_ and _your consent to be treated is **only** a courtesy_ with a little _should this happen again without my knowledge…_ No one needs that sentence finished. Ever.

Tim flinches at that look, not even noticing how Jason reaches out blindly to brace an arm over Dami’s chest and slowly backs them both away from the butler without even looking away, like he’s facing down a wild animal; instead of trying to fight the many-armed Grayson, he sinks a little further into Dick’s lap and tries not to look immediately, pathetically sick.

Alfred simply holds out a stiff hand to Jason, who, in turn, gingerly gives over the medical bag like he’s defusing a ticking bomb (red wire? Blue wire? Don’t make the butler explode, just don’t, okay because then he _will_ get mad) before he and Dami are scuttling backwards into the kitchen area like they are really the brains behind the Bats (well, in this case, maybe).  

Dick is just grinning like an asshole, “hey Alfred! Guess you heard we’ve got a sick bird?”

The butler hums while the med kit is open and _things_ start coming out, “one that has lost a vital organ as I have _recently_ been informed.”

And yup. _Yup_. If Tim has learned anything during his tenure as Robin (other than the fact that Bruce Wayne could not realistically take care of himself— _dude, you can’t even make a PB &J_), it’s that Alfred Pennyworth had certain _expectations_ once he returned from his resignation, followed immediately by Dick Grayson going completely ape shit once he found out and totally took it upon himself to go in search of Alfred all over the damn place (Gotham beats Antarctica any day).

One stipulation of Alfred’s return being: Bruce (and vicariously everyone else) would _deal_ with mother-henning without a) trying to escape, b)bitching, or c)being a righteous pain in the butler’s ass (usually still happens).  Tim, in his infinite wisdom, has found the best way to escape the Bat-clutches years ago: don’t even mention any potential owies unless they are _seriously_ life-threatening (the Clench notwithstanding), like “that’s kind of an internal organ so I _might_ need a few stitches, Alfred, if you’re not, you know, busy and such.” Rather, he has cultivated the skill to pull off a plethora of injuries with a completely calm, straight faced and continual movement to pretty much combat any idea he’s got torn, ripped, sliced anything. He’s fooled B numerous times, not that it was that hard, but deflection is seriously his weapon of choice next to the bo.

But, at this second, feeling like a lump of _sick is balls_ , Tim’s getting **that look** from Alfred. Like, right now. Aimed at his face.

“Hey Alfred, welcome to—“ he tries because manners, right?

Nope. Alfred just hums, sticking a thermometer in his mouth to shut him up, stethoscope already in his ears to press the little disc right under Tim’s shirt and over his heart then around Dick’s arms to his back.

Bruce comes out of the hallway, towel around his waist and one on his head; of course, _World’s Greatest Detective_ , takes note of the _unhappy_ Alfred and almost manages the first step in a strategic retreat back down the hallway. Almost.

“Your clothing is in the kitchen, Master Bruce,” because yeah, _Alfred_. He’s already taking the thermometer out of Tim’s mouth, arching a brow, and holding out an arm for the blood pressure cuff.  Tim gives up his arm, fumbling to get the hoodie sleeve off (can do it just _fine_ , Dick) to realize how much like ass he really feels, the ache getting worse in his joints, the pressure behind his eyes, his chest sore with infection, and all that starch eeks out of his spine until he’s hunched over himself in the niche of Dick’s lap when the acrobat crossed his legs on the couch to pretty much create a pocket for his ass (and _no_ , he’s not going to admit how comfy it is).

And now, there’s a pause to Alfred’s outer shell of _irritated_. “Master Timothy?”

He sighs and just, _this_ _is why he doesn’t like anyone seeing him when his immunities fail_. “M’ good, just tired. Not septic this time, okay?  No need to worry.”

The butler breathes in deeply with his eyes closed, and if this were anyone other than Alfred Pennyworth, Tim would have said he was asking a higher power for patience. “What have you already taken to combat this illness?”

Dick steps in and obediently rattles off the IV fluids and the pill bottle he apparently found in the bathroom (because he was looking for it, of course) while he slowly, very gently puts a minute amount of pressure on Tim’s side so the younger man manages to list a little closer to Dick’s chest and shoulder. Since, well, _Dick_ , he’s keeping up the monologue with Alfred, calling out instructions to Dami and Jay in the kitchen while he does what he needs to make Tim sink further into comfort. And because Dick is always warm, Tim’s cheek presses up against that shoulder before he really realizes it, eyes fuzzy, and dammit if the guy doesn’t make him feel…cared for. It’s so strange because he used to have this feeling back when he and Dick were train surfing, being okay, and he just didn’t realize that feeling is slowly coming back and how shitty it had been to _lose_ it (he still smells like Old Spice, Kevlar, and the musk that’s all Dick Grayson).

The small flashlight shines in his eyes and is then gone.

“I will need to see any injuries, Master Tim.”

“I’ve got ‘em all, Alfred. I swear.” Bleary and slightly slurred.

“Regardless, young sir.” Now, there’s the kindly, gentle Alfred that honestly (no matter what Jason says) gets no perverse pleasure in making any member of the family suffer (well, might have an exception with B).

“Okay, okay.” His eyes close briefly and Tim just gives up the ghost since there is no way he can ever say _no_ to Alfred Pennyworth. He throws off the blanket, using the arm of the couch to get to his feet, Dick’s hands on his hips helping. He’s forced himself to move with more injuries, external than internal, than this, and well, just another hurdle to leap over.

Alfred has a firm but easy hold on his bicep, maneuvering him toward the kitchen table, pulling out a chair automatically for the young sir while helping to remove the hoodie and t-shirt. Even though Alfred’s got gloves on, he can still feel the heat through them, his upper body already shivering with fever.

Damian nudges a mug in his hand that, at first, is probably coffee, but upon inspection, is some kind of wonderfully smelling tea, something like Chai (really, how did the demon know it’s his favorite?), and Tim just wraps both hands around it to inhale the musky, earthy scent. He gives the younger Robin a half-smile in thanks while Alfred and Jason tisk at the gauze pads taped to his upper body, peeling the medical tape off gingerly. B sips on coffee, lounging against the counter and out of the way while Dick hovers in the doorway between the two rooms.

Once all the pads and bandages are off, the two men pause significantly and Tim’s eyes open enough to be seriously tired because here comes the lectures. He breathes out because just _can’t this wait_?

“The stitches on this one are holding,” Jason is saying with his suddenly gloved hands ( _when did that happen?_ ) gently prodding the wicked gash taken out of his shoulder, “no signs of infection.”

“The bruising is still intensive here,” just the aura of Alfred’s gloved hand hovering over his mid-back makes him shudder.

“This one’s still a little raw looking,” Jason motions to Dami, who obediently pulls Tim’s arm over his shoulder, making the older man list a little in the chair before he realizes he’s doing it. “Baby Bird, how old is this one?”

“Uh,” and he blinks, brain kicking on _that was the **thing** with the Church a few days ago?_ “Tuesday. Brother Blood.” He brings up the tea again.

“Still not happy, Baby Bird,” Jason is saying and _cold_ all over his side, making him flinch automatically, Dami’s grip on his wrist tighten just a touch while the kid looks down at him and the nasty contusion half-stitched at his side, still red and kind of gross because, well, bad guys just liked hitting that spot sometimes. And, well, Kon had gotten him a good one during sparring before he left the Tower not that it was his fault or anything…

Then Jason is re-taping a gauze pad over it while Dami holds up his arm.  Alfred just pats his shoulder gently while Dami eases his arm back down, his own arms folded over his chest and assessing.

“Your espresso is in the top cupboard,” he remembers, he moved it when the kid started getting tall enough to reach without leaving boot prints on his damn counter.

The brow arches a little since he’s already in comfy civvies, “I would rather have tea for the time being, Drake. However, thank-you for remembering.”

Another touch to the right bicep but that one is so past the worrying stage; he’d taken the stitches out of it _days ago_. “Always keep it stocked. You were right, it’s the shit.”

And Dami hums with a smirk.

“You’re in for it, you know, Marvel movies.” More antibiotic cream applied to his shoulder, and he must really be feeling like shit if he can’t control the spasm of pain showing in the twitch and draw of his brows.

Dami steps closer in his line of vision, “I have heard these should be cinematic masterpieces. My expectations should be well met or Grayson will never live it down.”

Tim chuffs while the injuries are getting re-wrapped, “nothing beats the comics, Baby Bat, but the majority are seriously good, like, my life good.”

“Fanboy.” Said with an arched brow, but who is he kidding? Colin is right up there with Cosplay.

“Yup. Totally true.”

Then the eye roll because, “I have attempted this, what was it? _Spiderman_ you suggested. I do not see the appeal.”

Tim puts the mug down abruptly because _what the hell are you **talking** about?!_ He opens his mouth, sucks in a breath, and the cough waiting in his lungs spills out, making him turn away. The cold disc is back under his shoulder blades for a second longer than it should be, but Tim just waves a hand, blinks to clear watery eyes.

“Nope, all good,” and the wheeze is almost gone, see? “Anyway, the appeal? _Superpowers_.”

When he looks back, Dami’s brows are drawn together like, well, maybe worry or constipation or debating which soft parts to stab or something. “We know a great deal of our allies that also have superpowers. None of the, however, to my knowledge have been bitten by something _radioactive_ , Drake. That bite should have killed this Spiderman.”

“That’s part of it, Dami. C’mon,” and now Jason is just tossing the shirt over his head, making him throw his arms through it, “the fact that he lived _and_ he can shoot webs from his hands and stuff.”

“—tt—. The fact he is able to perform such a feat means he should have a similar spinnerets as the real thing and eat insects by liquefying their innards, yet, he is still a normal man with a penchant for takeout food.” Dami is just being reasonable, right?

“Well…never thought of that, I guess.”

The brat smirks again, pulling at his wrist to get Tim to his feet, leading him right back to the couch where he can shiver his ass off in comfort at least.

“It’s still a cool premise.”

“To the feeble-minded and infirm, I am certain,” the kid doesn’t even give him an _inch_ , but shoves him right at the second he’s in front of the waiting Dick Grayson.

“Shit!”

And all arms, again. Dick manhandles him, throws the blanket over him, and even gets a hand free from the struggling Tim to accept the tea from Dami.

“Iron Man first!” He starts with an evil cackle.

“Captain America,” Tim argues because _chronological_.

“Acceptable,” B agrees, maneuvering himself next to Dick on the couch, wrapping both palms around Tim’s ankles to lay the legs over his own while Dami and Jason find seats around them and Alfred moves from place to place in the kitchen, getting to know the layout, looking in cabinets, the fridge, the pantry.

**

Dick doesn’t even realize he’s got a hand in Tim’s hair, gently massaging and scratching at the scalp until the weight against him is just relaxed and Timmy is totally _gone_. Sleeping again, face pressed into Dick’s neck, the slightly wheezy breaths are deeper and even. Captain America would be off soon, and he calculates two more Iron Mans, and Avengers, and maybe a Hulk in between before he'd be okay with the amount of sleep his little brother has. Until then (or until he has to stand up to get the blood rushing back into his legs, but it's cool, B would take over the 'hold on to, Timmy' marathon if Jay didn't want to), Dick just sits back while the vegetable soup Alfred is making cooks.

The rest of the family takes a moment to glance over before going back to the movie.


	8. Alternate ending to Chapter 22 for Azazel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because he made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azazel needed something different, so yeah. Maybe not what she wanted, but still.

And no, he doesn’t necessarily _need_ to be a fucking Bat to realize (as he coming back to consciousness) shit is not how it should be.

He had decided (because 25% you dicks) on the need to chill in his perch in Gotham after leaving the Watchtower, give himself another few days and some space to work out the knee and shoulder before he went back to the Titans for general kick assery (Bart’s word of the day). Well, the kids were gone anyway, learned what they could from him (fuck, he missed them, _fuck_ ) and would have their chance at a normal life (since how could a constantly moving vigilante keep them? A guy that basically raised himself? _Why would he do that to them?_ ). They would be together, they would attend school, they’d come back to others in the superhero community with training on their powers, they would have support, they would have comfort and love, they would have as much normalcy as they could, and sometimes, when they were able, he’d go see them, too. He’s done everything in his power to set up what they would need once they got older and were ready to decide their futures. He’s set up funds, permanent addresses (his parents are dead, they wouldn’t give a shit), back stories, the works. It…It’s _fine_. It’s what has to be best for _them_ , not for him, and he so totally gets that. He made the suggestions, he chose the other meta couple, supervised the first few home visits (and slid some cameras in there just in case), and dropped them off the last time with all the stuff they’d accumulated while living with him in the Watchtower.

They would live close to a park, close to a museum, had an _epic_ hill to sled down in the winter. They were satisfied, not nearly as afraid as they had been, at ease with the choice they’d made with his direction. And that…

That is so good. Fine really because he’s mostly healed, and so time to get back to work.

(Karmen hadn’t been crying when she hugged him…nope. She liked her room, she liked the fact Mike and Holly gave her space to explore and be who she is. And Charlie holding on to the part of the wings over his shoulder with both fists so tight with his face in Red’s neck and his wrist computer going crazy because the kid just... _it’s okay buddy, anytime you need me, I’m not far_. Caroline smiling at him, really _smiling_ because she was happy and hopeful and everything she needed to be at her age. And Leo holding on to his Superman plushie with one hand while he buried his head against Red’s side and held on with the other hand. His chest hadn’t been aching like fuck when he, Supes, and Batman stepped back to be teleported away, no he hadn’t… _God, why did it have to be this way?_ )

He’d been back in the Perch for nearly a day, working like mad to catch up (and _not to think about_ it). Last thing he remembered was leaning back in his chair by his system and closing his eyes for a minute while all his updates ran to start pulling the newest batch of updates and data…

His whole body tenses and he’s _awake_ before really coming to full consciousness (Robin training, right? More like, _I’ve been beaten to unconsciousness and woke up all kinds of pissed before—not something new_ ), his brain kicks into work mode; as in. take everything in and plan accordingly. Random amounts of _owfuck this sucks_ notwithstanding since, you know, he could be hanging out with the Suicide Squad or dangling to his immediate fucking peril over a vat of Joker acid (he should totally trademark that stuff). Still some twinges from the knee and thigh, still some raw ache from the bullet holes—it’s been a little less than a month and _still_.

He’s lying down (it’s pretty comfortable actually, most evil lairs don’t usually have _soft_ and _warm_ as part of the design, he’d just always assumed it was a criminal thing, but really, who has time to go shopping at Macy’s for a nice mattress and sheet set when you’re trying to kill a lot of people? Priorities.) and he can hear the faint sounds of snoring. Body heat close to his right arm, a knee touching his left.

Someone makes a noise and rolls over, and just _fuck_. A whole lot of _What. The. Great. Fuck?_

He cracks an eye, forcing his breathing to calm down to the same pattern as normal REM, and less than a foot or so away from his face, Jason Todd, the Red Hood, the guy that loves the hell out of Renaissance plays and old philosophy (that one time Red found a copy of _Man’s Nature is Evil, Hsun Tzu_ and that guy almost had **_kittens_** ) just as much as he loves terrible chili dogs, cheap beer, and copies of Guns N’ Ammo, is sleeping with one hand under his cheek. That face, the one normally with deeps and hollows from frowning or fighting or laughing like an asshole at inane shit, is a completely different guy than Robin/Red Robin/Tim Drake has ever met (formally). This guy, this is what the second Robin looked like at one time, up close and personal instead of, you know, through a camera lens with so much youthful hero worshipping added in. It strikes him that, _God_ , Jason looks so fucking _young_ like this (he’s only three years older than me, isn’t he?), untouched by all the bad that would eventually be his downfall. It’s…a shock to look, to see him without that shit-eating grin or terrifying intent when he’s mentally siting down the barrel to take out the next big bad before it can get him first.

And like an accident, Tim can’t look away, assessing, memorizing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he’ll probably never get again. Nope. He’s got to make sure he takes in every detail no matter how wrong it feels (because this is something that _isn’t his to see_ , right? Just like Robin should have died with Jason Todd but fucking Tim resurrected that shit and stepped into someone else’s role…he shouldn’t _look_ ) The next time, he’ll see the guy in the mask, whichever one it might be.

A gentle sound has his eyes rolling over even though he already knows what’s there, just by rote. That and the knee touching his left leg kind of cements that since the only person that might be in _his_ bed and even semi-comfortable with touch would have to be Dick Grayson.

_Gold star for the detective. You know, reading those Encyclopedia Brown books as a kid really paid off in the long run. I’m going to have to write to that editor someday: “Dear So and So, I’m totally a kick ass investigator. Thanks for helping out. Sincerely, the guy in the mask over there watching you_. _P.S. You are seriously going to jail for tax evasion, my bad_. _Make it easy on yourself and give up. K’, thanks, see you soon. Emoji Emoji_.

Dick breathes out a sigh, lying on his stomach with arms tucked under his pillow, and some of the darkness under his eyes has faded, the bruise-like quality lighter, closer to his normal skin tone since this is apparently vigilante nap time without the towels and sweet juice boxes. However, none of this observation answers his very intelligent questions consisting of _what_ and _the fuck_ with a little _how_ and _the fuck_.

Dick moans softly, eyebrows scrunching slightly, one hand coming out from under the pillow. Those fingers, well worn, up against his arm makes the older Bat relax (like someone else there made the nightmares go away, and Tim…Tim got that feel, really he did). He doesn’t move, just keeps breathing that same, slow pattern, while wondering what the hell is really going on. (Dick’s back is to the door, Jason’s to the window and he’s the monkey in the middle— _big vigilante now, you assholes, remember?_ )

Testing the proverbial waters, Tim shifts one leg, eyes sliding from one older Bat to the other, observing how deep in REM they might be. Jason snuffs, chokes on half a snore, slides closer to his side, an arm thrown abruptly over his chest; Dick flops on his other side, facing the door, hand behind him on Tim’s thigh. It takes too long for both of them to untense in their sleep and slip back into a REM cycle. Like, way too long.

Welp. That answers that. And his utility belt is waaaay over there in the closet, so no grapple. Shit.

What should really be freaking him out right about now, however, is the missing progression of steps that took him from falling asleep in his chair to lying in between the two older Bats in his own bed (or the fact that the three of them can fit somewhat comfortably in his bed in the first place—nope, not going there). A little further on _that_ train is how those two got him in here without waking him but also seemed to be of the mutual agreement that shirts are simply overrated and unnecessary. Not that he hasn’t seen both men naked a time or two (since I’m pulling a bullet out of the back of your thigh, _Jay_ , why don’t we nix the fucked up tights so I can see what I’m doing, kay? Oh and that tiny stall shower in the Cave for when blood is just way too drippy for the Manor? Not even enough room to dry your junk off without slamming both elbows into everything so dress _outside_ the damn thing, right Dick?), but seeing them with bare upper bodies, relaxed in sleep, and with the new motivations behind their recent actions—to earn him back into their family—it’s really not a wonder the old yearnings have taken a up a spot in him again. Just…he’s not made of _stone_ for fuck’s sake.

Too long of setting up anonymous and infrequent “meetings” have taken a toll. It’s becoming _apparent_ now.

Tim closes his eyes, breathes under Jason’s arm and Dick’s hand, forces his heart beat back down to normal, forces himself not to focus on the warmth pooling in his belly, on the stark pangs of _want_ and _need_ that rear up from the depths and deeps of old feelings. They want a _brother_. They want a guy that can fight the good fight then maybe eat pizza or play some video games or some shit. The things he wants, has always wanted on some level (but is realistic enough to know _that_ shit isn’t happening), aren’t there for them, and that’s okay. Really, he can be what they need if this is come-back-to-the-vigilante-fam-side going to be a thing.

“Thinkin’ too hard, Baby Bird,” Jay’s voice is just so close to his ear, a warm and rough edge of sleepy still on it. And all the meditation in the world isn’t going to convince him _that_ isn’t—

Damn it.

“Maybe,” he allows quietly, keeping his eyes closed. “’Preciate you not slitting my throat in my sleep, you know.”

The laugh is warm against his temple. “Gonna give me some kudos, huh?”

“An armful, let me just _get up_ —“

“Nope,” and _this guy_ doesn’t move at all, just settles his weight back down deeper into the mattress and sighs. “You move and Dickie is probably going to flop over and cuddle the shit outta you. Wanta chance that one?”

_Ah, dammit. Octopus hold_. “I seriously never knew blackmail was your style. Always thought _stab, stab terrible monologue_ was more Jason Todd.”

“You. Suck. Terrible monologue? I ain’t the Joker, you asshole. My monologues _rock_.”

“Mhm,” with a brow arched, Tim opens his eyes just to give him the look. The _look_.

Jay chuffs, and the arm tightens around his chest, the hand gripping his arm. “Seriously, Timmy. Coming back here after a good-bye to the kiddos.”

He shrugs under Jason’s arms, lifting his eyes to stare at his ceiling, catching various bits of leftover tape from more than one round of _let’s stare at the evidence until it makes sense_.

“I was only sixty or so hours before I fell asleep,” he deflects like a boss because they aren’t having that convo. No need to. Everything is fine. He made the right call by those four, and they needed something good, better than good.

“Aw, c’mon, kid.” And Jay’s tone turns a little, just a little, softens with the gruff edge, and even though _bad idea_ is stamped all over this little show, Tim turns his head slightly to look at the guy, face scant inches away. But, well, it’s the _adult Jay_ expression, the one he reserves for when he’s deep in Act VI, Scene III or handling one of the bad cases with a whole different set of littles, the bad nights as a vigilante with something more than _I’m getting revenge for you_ mentality.

And from this close, Jay’s eyes have tiny, golden flecks in them, and his jaw is shadowed slightly with red stubble. He still hasn’t moved his arm.

“I made the right call,” and he _did_ , doesn’t mean it isn’t ass. “I’ll see them occasionally.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m a vigilante, Jay. I can’t just _keep_ a bunch of meta kids.” _No matter how much I wanted to_ , “they need stuff like school and parents and bed times.”

“And feetie pajamas and shit.”

“Right. Someone has to make them eat their vegetables and reward them for A’s and B’s on report cards.” _Thing I didn’t get, things I didn’t need at the time. Things I didn’t want until after my parents were dead._

“Mmhm, and hug the littlest shit everyday because _that kid_ fucking needs it, man.”

“She deserves all the hugs _ever_ , dude.”

“Yeah, yeah she does.”

“…I miss them. That’s obvious, but doing the right thing is more important than missing them.”

And Jay’s arm, the attached hand, moves. The palm slide up to his shoulder and across, fitting the back of his neck like it was made for just _that_ damn spot. And Jay, Jay that has no reservations about a smack to the back, a noogie, of gentling enough when the injury is bad, pulls him closer with a strange kind of strength—not the usual, _I’m going to punch your nose **through your face**_ kind of strength, but one that is oddly tender. And even though he could fight it, could probably leap over Dick before the guy twitches into awake/cuddle mode, Tim just goes with it, rolling on his side at Jay’s silent urging.

He’s shorter, sure, and it’s a thing he’s come to deal with (and the fact even _Dami_ is probably going to be taller than him because genetics? Really could suck it), but he hadn’t really thought about how much shorter since, well, he still kicks ass and takes names. Not until the top of his head is firmly under Jason’s chin and the heat of his body warms the natural coolness of Tim’s. It’s…nice. Really. Lacking the old _huh, which am I betting on this time? Stabbed, shot, or punched?_ instinct makes this a whole more complicated, a different _realm_ of complicated.

“Doesn’t make it easier, Baby Bird,” Jay’s chest vibrates against his own and those damn _feelings_ well up all over again, a complex mixture he doesn’t want or need to think about. “Doing the right thing kinda makes it harder even, yeah?”

His forehead pressed in the niche of Jason’s sternum, that arm around him, grounding him a little from all this—the _closeness_ , it’s…

“Yeah,” he finally admits. “Yeah. I…I would have kept them. I could have kept them safe.”

“Course you could’ve.”

“But I couldn’t give them any kind of normal, Jay. That’s…not in the cards at this point.”

Jay hums a little, their knees bumping under the covers. Tim sighs, closes his eyes.

From behind him, Dick rolls over again and scoots, presses up against his back. A heavy arm flops over his hip, the attached hand landing on Jay’s. “Normal is totally overrated,” the oldest Bat son chides through a yawn, breath warm on the back of his neck around the palm there. “Take it from me. I rocked pixie boots most of my adolescence. Still just this side of functional adult.”

And both younger Bats laugh because _really_? The guy could probably live on cereal alone.

“Still…” Tim closes his eyes again because just looking, just _looking_ at Jay is too close, being held between them is just too fucking _close_ … “Always the possibility I might not come back from whatever the next fight is going to be. That’s the nature of what we do, and I can’t let them wait around for the night it might actually happen. Shit, I wouldn’t do that to any of them.”

Both the arms around him tighten just an iota more, and no, no thanks, I know there’s expressions on your faces I don’t want to see.

“S’okay. Mike and Holly are going to be there no matter what. That’s what matters.”

And no, dammit, his chest doesn’t hurt, _fuck you very much_ , but that…doesn’t seem to matter to these two. They just do that thing with their bodies that they don’t do well their mouths, tell him they’re sorry, they know how he feels, they’re here for him, all in how much closer the two snuggle against him, wedging him in with their warmth and strength until his chest lifts in a soft sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what would have happened if I stuck with the original plan and let the kiddos be adopted. Well, nope.


	9. Crossover for Graywhims

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a possibility that Luthor or Doom are dick bag. Well, more than a possibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I wrote something in a comment for Graywhms who asked for this, so the first part is from that and then it picks up ;)  
> In advanced, it's not as good as I'd like it to be just because of the groove of Tony. I haven't written for Forward Momentum for a minute, so it feels a little strange maybe? Lol, as long as Graywhims rocks it, all good ;)

The minute he feels the portal's influence pull away, Red is on his feet, facing whatever fuckery he might have tumbled into since, you know, Luthor is a dick bag.

  
The looming robotic arm wheels back with soft beeps, and Red takes in his surroundings: a machine shop, glass cases (like the one that held Jason's first Robin suit) are housing some kind of mechanical reinforcement that look strangely familiar, like he's seen them somewhere before.

"All right, hands up, kid. Don't make me break bad on you."

Red spins, already palming paralyzing pellets and whirlybirds, looking at a bearded man with one hand extended with a mechanical supplement on his arm. The glowing disc is aimed right at Red's face.

Whole body tight, ready to spring, Red almost-

"Sir. The anamoly has closed and our visitor is armed with mild explosives."

"Thanks for the update, J.J. Why don't we invite everyone else down to the party?"

"Better get streamers," Red comes back automatically, "those thing totes make it a good time."

The man in question huffs an abrupt laugh, like he hasn't expected the snark.

"Where am I?" Red asks, not releasing his stance or weapons.

"New York. Avenger's Tower. You know, we have a Hulk here and he has this morbid hobby of smashing bones into paste so you really could have picked a better landing spot, kid. Not judging, of course."

"What? Avenger's Tower?!" Red blinks behind the domino, "that's...imposs- never mind, but I am kicking Lex Luthor's ass when I get back, so _fucking_ help me." If he was the dick bag in charge because this seriously reeked of that guy.

"Luthor? Lex Luthor? Kid, I think you might have hit your head, taken some good drugs maybe-"

"Hell no. Poisen Ivy is almost out of the game by now. Shit, the Titans are going to go postal."

Now the dark haired man is raising both eyebrows. "Kid-"

"Sir, the trace on our visitor-"

"Red Robin," he feels like he has to inform.

"Pardon me, Master Robin, however it seems his origins are Gotham City, USA. Earth 11468."

"And," Red starts, "what universe have I stumbled into?"

"Master Robin, welcome to Earth 14168. Mr. Stark and the Avengers shall attempt to assist you home."

"Mr. Stark? The Avengers? Like Tony Stark, Iron Man, Tony Stark?"

The man in questions gives a short bow while the AI replies with, "Affirmative."

"Aaaaand," Tony draws out, "Red Robin? Like Batman and Robin Tim Drake kind of Robin? Because Thor is such a fan, you don't even know."

Feeling a little faint because, _fucking Iron Man_ , Red nods and raises the lenses on his domino. And Thor. Fuck, his inner fanboy is going nuts. Numbly, as the doors to the machine shop spill open and Captain America with the other at his back charge through, Red only blinks at the Tony Stark and points with one gloved hand, "your bot’s third wheel needs oil, you know."

And those dark eyes glitter with interest.

**

In any other circumstance, this would be _The. Shit._ Well, multi-dimensional travel and such.

Half of the island is filling up, and Red is _still_ digging around in his utility belt.

When the Avengers asked him politely to disarm, no one imagined it would take _this_ long or yield this much of a result. Jim Barnes and Tony Stark, the guys _known_ for randomly hidden weapons are staring with mouths agape as Red adds another handful of whirlybirds to the neat piles spread over the countertop.

“Okay, that’s the belt,” Red unclips the belt and folds it beside the neat piles. He touches the first compartment of the harness and starts the process over again.

Thor, since he’s like a freaking _cat_ , leans down to look at the small pellets, one finger out to poke—

“No!” Red snaps immediately, already grabbing the God’s wrist “Those _explode_. Loudly. You don’t know where the triggers are.” He immediately releases the God after the point is made, but Thor doesn’t seem angry, just draws back from the pellets with a look even more curious than before.

“How many explode?” Clint asks curiously, eyeing the weaponry.

Red uses a finger to circle around three piles of pellets, “small, medium, and _holy-shit-run_.”

The Captain barks out a laugh. “Okay, what do the rest of them do then?”

“Ah,” more pointing, “smoke, paralyzing, sticky shit, pointy shit, weed killers for Ivy’s crazy plants, these ones have a compound for Joker Venom, these ones are for Scarecrow’s fear gas, and these ones are new, still trying them out.” Red picks up a pointedly yellow pellet, “it’s a small EMP device. Throw it at something electronic and there you go. Haven’t had much of a chance to test it yet—“

Tony’s eyes are HUGE and full of _gimmie, gimmie, gimmie, gimmie, I’ll test the **hell** out of them_. “Who made them?”

“I did,” Red shrugs, holds out the pellet to put in Stark’s palm. “You can test them if you want.” He goes back to the harness, taking the keys to his Ducati and the other set to his perch out. Moving to the next compartment, he ignores the looks he’s getting from the gathering (even though his inner fanboy is _fucking screaming_ because THE AVENGERS). He puts the twin tasers down and pull one of the extra retractable bos from behind the harness strap.

“How much of this stuff do _you_ make?” Tony asks curiously, slipping the pellet in his pocket while he leans down over the island, looking over the piles.

“Most of it,” Red answers shortly, “not really stuff you can pick-up at Target, and the weapons are usually specific for certain groups of baddies. You know, which flavor of the week wants to kill me in any number of horrific ways.”

“Only the exploding ones look lethal,” Tony draws out with an arched brow.

Red looks up sharply, the whiteout lenses directed at Iron Man. “The exploding ones are last resort. I was a _Bat_ and we don’t kill. Period.” With a little more force than necessary, Red puts the snap traps down. “It’s not how Batman does things.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Tony holds up both hands.

Red doesn’t reply, keeps opening compartments until it’s all spread over the island countertop like a buffet of _don’t fuck with the kid, seriously, he has a plan_. Red finally deactivates the security on the harness and takes it off, laying it next to the piles of weapons. On a second thought, he sighs, reaching under the wing pack and pulls out a third bo then props one booted foot up on the rungs of the stool, reaches into the various pocket in his armor and pulls out a few sundries.

A few more things here and there. Finally, Red straightens, holding up both hands. “Okay. Other than the wings and pack, I’m pretty sure that’s everything.”

“You’re like a one kid army,” Clint just shakes his head a little in wonder.

“I never pack light,” Red deadpans while Sam is eyeing the wings since, you know, they both have that thing going on, and Red gives the guy a half smile. “The cape is partially made of piezoelectric material. I can activate it with the pack to be a glider or into blades.”

The Avengers trade a glance and stand back.

Red turns to the side to keep from slicing anything in half and hits the right button on his gauntlet, flaring the pack’s electronic function, turning the material into the glider.

Tony is the guy that steps up first, hands already _itching_ —

“Whoa!” Red stops him with a hand on his bicep. “Gloves, man. You do _not_ want the kind of static shock these things can produce. That shit hurts. A lot.”

“Experience?” Tony grins at the kid and it’s just such a coincidence they’re almost the same height. Really, he’s not bitter or anything since even _Nat_ has a few inches on him. Oh, well, he’s taller than Steve in the Iron Man suit, so who has the last laugh? The guy with the most toys.

“Oh yeah. Second degree electrical burns before I got them to work.”

Tony whistles. “You didn’t take a voltage dampener into account, did you?”

Red straightens, thinking. “Well, yes. I used a different polymer instead, but they still have issues when I’m over a thousand feet—“

“The polymer can’t hold like a dampener could.” Tony points out.

“With the kind of voltage I need to activate them, I didn’t think a dampener would work.” Red muses.

“Of course it will,” Tony counters, getting closer to eye the spread and just _there it is_. The assembled team knows that look. The engineer is glinting in Tony Stark’s eye. “You’ll need to recalibrate the pack slightly, but the output is—“

“Extensive as is,” Bruce inputs, adjusting his glasses to look closer without touching.

“Exactly,” Red nods, “the polymer fusion—“

“Is how you get the blades,” Tony nods, “but you can still create the same _effect_ if—“

“I integrate a different polymer and incorporate a dampener.” Red cradles his chin in one hand, mind working.

“Precisely. Show me the blade function.” Tony pulls up a stool to watch, waves to Bruce to join them.

Red holds his gauntlet out to show both Avengers the trigger. The effect is immediate. The pack sparks again, the wings turning harder, sharper.

“Brilliant,” Tony just shakes his head a little while Sam steps around to look at the thing from the back and whistles.

“I still like my pack,” he says with a shrug.

Red laughs a little, scratching the back of his head, “well, this pack isn’t perfect. A good hit and it’s done, but I haven’t really had time to tweak it more. You know, bad guys don’t take vacays and stuff, but at the time, I needed something… _different_ from my old persona.”

“Explain,” the Captain requests but it sounds more like an order.

Red huffs a little, crossing his arms. “I started out as the Batman’s partner, Robin. When…when someone else took the mantle over, I needed to make a new persona for myself.” He sweeps one hand down his body. “I needed one that could do things the other Robin _couldn’t_ do. That’s how I started as Red Robin.”

Jim Barnes and Natasha Romanoff have a knowing look, but he nips that train of thought right off.

“Not killing,” he interjects softly, “it’s…a long story. Maybe some other time.”

The sore point is there. Oh yeah, Red has no illusions about it. Dick pretty much thinking he’d lost his mind is still a painful reminder that the guy might not have ever really _trusted_ him, might not have ever considered him a Bat. All that _little brother_ talk was just _talk_. Red lets out a slow, measured breath.

Thor is the one that steps up to the young man, seeing something there in this young warrior, and regardless of the dangerous blades over his shoulders, puts a hand to the younger man’s shoulder and squeezes. In this youth, he sees much of himself, a fighter, a battle strategist, the leader, and yet there is something so delicate about the human. Without saying a word, the God just gives him a half-smile that Red eventually returns.

**

Well, multi-dimensional universe travel just has to go and fuck the most awesomely non-Comic Con nerd moment **_of his life_**. Yup, instead of enjoying the fact he’s in Avenger’s Tower— _the_ Avenger’s Tower— he’s got to be all responsible and shit and try figuring out the equations that brought him here in the first damn place (not that it’s necessarily that big of a deal since, you know, he has Tony Stark and all the toys that necessitates). Totally. Lame. Necessary, but lame nonetheless.

He’s still in full uniform (not for long because Tony Stark wanted to play with the wings and pack later, and he is _so totally on **that** fucking train_. Yes, just all kinds of yes), lenses raised on the dom, standing by the island on the Avenger’s Common Floor kitchen after he’d pretty much put everything back in his belt and harness. His gauntlet computer still has readings from his universe along with readings from this one for comparison. He’s got a place to start, something that would make it easier in the long run (even though he’d figure it out eventually because, vigilantes do it better, _natch_ ). So, working the hologram screens around him is a breeze, like breathing, manipulating figures and calculations fast, building the blocks he’d need to get back to Gotham…since, well, the Bats seriously have _“We Are Family”_ on an endless loop or something these days (Take. A. Pill. Demon. Stop learning from Dick). The point, he doesn’t want them going to crazy lengths trying to find him in a few weeks or so once they get the memo from the Titans that he _might_ be missing and a whole lot of _oh shit, the Bats have fucking **skill**_ just comes back to bite everyone in the ass. Nope. No need to tear the fabric of space/time, thanks. Really, just an interdimensional phone call would be fine. B’s rich, get a shit-ton of quarters, Hood.

The slight clink a few feet from his moving hands is _coffee_ and everything screeches to a halt. Red pauses dramatically, looking down at the stuff with absurd gratitude as he pick up the mug with both hands (slipping the pill from his utility belt with some sleight of hand and dropping it in the mug on the ‘low, just in case the stuff is drugged with something), blowing on it (let the compound dissolve any residual drugs) before taking a happy drink.

Tony is still hanging out with him, leaning against the island with his own mug, eyeing everything on the hologram screens, eyes moving rapidly over the findings.

Doctor Bruce Banner—or _The Doctor Bruce Banner_ aka _The Mother-Fucking Hulk_ as it sounds in his head— is also looking over his calculations with more than vague interest.

Red blinks at the two of them and gestures to the screens, “ah, not my first time multiversing. Multi-dimensioning, yes. Multi-verse, no.” He gives a shrug at the two scientists suddenly looking _very_ interested again. Like with the wings, the two are apparently hungry for another scientific-mind to brainstorm. Now that he’s in what he’s mentally dubbed _the Marvel Universe_ , he can get the real deets on Gamma Rays. Seriously. This is _his life_.

Tony sets his coffee cup down and immediately turns on Bruce, already has a finger pointed, mouth halfway open.

“No.” The other scientists cuts him off at the _knees_.

“Brucie-bear!”

“Tony,” and in that warning tone. The same one Bruce uses when Tony has pointy things. So, rude. How does he even _know_ —?

“I know exactly what you’re thinking. Yes, he can hang out until we get him home. _No_ , we can’t just _keep him_. He’s not even from our dimension.”

“Perfect,” Tony counters, “the doppelgänger effect is moot because there isn’t another _him_ here. We’re in the clear, Bruce.” Because he needs this kid’s brain. Just, yes. Yes. Making tech, Avenger-ing, watching terrible movies, and playing with DUM-E and You would keep him entertained. He could join the ranks, work strategies with them, give fresh perspectives on bad guys and aliens and just _everything_. This kid is just what they _need_ on the team (even though he’s trying to convince Steve to recruit Spider-Man because _that guy_ has some sciencey-like knowledge too, Tony can _feel_ it).

“He has family where he’s from, Tony,” Steve counters from the other side of the island, gesturing to the kind of short young man, and Steve just gives him an _I’m sorry for our resident genius, he’s really swell once you get to know him, I swear_ expression.

Red goes back to the hologram screens, “Technically, I don’t. My parents are dead. I have my team and…well, I guess the Bats are trying to get me back for some reason because, you know, vigilantes do it better and such. But as for blooded kin? No, there’s no one waiting for me in my own dimension.”

He makes a correlation to a similar code with a few flicks of his fingers. He misses the look Tony throws Bruce as the other Avengers converge around the island to weigh in on the argument or just throw down bets. So, Tony starts up with the argument, ticking off reasons to keep Red Robin on one hand.  Jim comes in behind him with the coffee pot, shaking his head a little in mirth, expertly dodging Tony’s wide range of gestures to refill the mechanic’s mug. Holding up the pot, he gives the visiting kid an arched brow. Red puts his empty mug down with a quirked smile of thanks.

By then, Tony is winding down— “fighting _crime_. He’s totally Avenger’s material, people.”

“And aliens,” Red interjects between sips, “since, you know, the mind-controlling, take-over-or-destroy-the-universe ones are dick bags. Seriously. I hate those guys.”

At all those gazes swinging right at him, Red just looks back.

Tony blinks, once, and is right back to Steve. “See?! This is why we should _keep him_! He hates asshole aliens too!”

Rolling his eyes, Cap is about to start some epic lecture about Truth, Justice, and the American Way (because freedom, right?) when Red cuts in again, hesitating slightly.

“As much as the offer is appealing, and believe me, it is since, fanboy here, but…I suspect the others might figure out I’m gone in a week or two. Eventually they might try finding me.” He shrugs, “the Titans are a pain in the ass like that. Besides, I have bad guys in my universe that are pretty much penciled in, you know?”

Nat is the one that ventures to ask, “a week? I would hope your people would start worrying before that.”

Red nods slightly, “I have a terrible habit of fighting national and international crime. Happens, you know? If I don’t get to Ra’s by, at least, Wednesday he gets all kinds of antsy and starts up with the evil plots. League of Assassins and such. I like to keep up with them. Just in case.”

And, that’s not the effect he wants…at all. The Avengers are staring at him again, and those looks are not in any realm of _oh hey, interesting_.

“How _old_ are you, kid?” Jim Barnes asks with something dark in his tone.

Red falters a little, puts his now empty again mug down. “I started as Batman’s partner, when I was twelve. I’m nineteen now, almost twenty.”

“Shit!” From Hawkeye, crouched in his happy place on top the fridge in his offensive t-shirt (care of Tony since “Archers Never Miss the Mark” with an arrow sticking out of a gory human head, cute really) and sweats, “kid, you can’t even drink legally.”

Red blinks at him and just…he pulls the bottle of adhesive remover from his belt (ignoring the way all of them automatically tense since _he totally gets that_ ) and sprays the domino to pull it off, baring his face—no need to protect an ident that doesn’t _exist_ here. He waves the hologram screens to minimize and faces the Avengers.

“My real name is Tim. Tim Drake.” He says formally, “and yeah, seasoned vigilante. S’okay, most of my team is around my age and we’ve been doing this for years. It is what it is in my world.” Well, actually, only Bart is younger than him by a few months, but no one needs to know that.

“So, what?” Tony starts, looking a little more subdued, “random brat armies in your world? Please tell me there’s not a shadowy government group recruiting children there.”

Red laughs a little, waving a hand, “no, nothing like that. The last group that tried got the shit stomped out of them because _seriously_. Those guys I also hate, and tend to take down with extreme prejudice and long jail sentences. No, metas, or enhanced humans usually start manifesting powers in their early teens. In Superboy’s case, he was literally created with Superman’s powers, so he’s always been able to fly, have super strength, yada, yada. Some of them decide to fight for good when they manifest. Some decide the opposite. Some just want to be normal people and keep it under wraps. Whatever makes them happy. As for starting as Robin, well, that was all me. I pretty much figured out Batman’s secret identity and made him take me on as his next partner. My call and no, I regret nothing.”

“For the greater good then?” Steve asks with a small smile, and Captain America _gets it_.

Red grins back, “that’s _the mission_. Batman’s whole thing. I’ve been on board _that_ train for a while.”

Jim Barnes laughs out loud and the sound drawn the other’s attention in a good way. “Kid, I might be with Stark on this one.”

**

 

“This isn’t a good idea,” Red draws out, eyes narrowing, assessing.

Natasha Romanoff starts stretching. “You’re a new element, something to keep the rest of us sharp.” She points out in reply and, well, he really can’t argue with that logic.

“You have a point,” the bo slides through his hands like water, “but I do have a slight advantage. I’ve ready the issues about your training from the Red Room.”

“Ah, glad your comic books seem to strive for accuracy,” and that small smirk tells him she’s playing. It’s good, kind of like Dick, get the ha-ha out before the _owfuck_. He can dig it.

“Well, you could have been doing your homework on me,” he draws out, “you know, that one guy, Dixon, did a pretty great job of getting my good side.”

And Nat’s smile doesn’t reach her _eyes_ , and Red knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that she could take Shiva and _win_. Welp, so could _he_ now, so win-win. Cass, however, different story.

Red grins at her, moving with just a pair of borrowed sweats and t-shirt, no uniform, no utility belt or harness since he told her that would give him more of an unfair advantage. He shrugs and moves in a warm-up kata, working his muscles like water, the bo like an extension of his arms and legs, closing his eyes so he doesn’t see Captain America, the Winter Soldier, and Hawkeye hanging out by the mats (heh, he used to being critiqued by _Batman_ , seriously?). Instead, he steps up his speed because, well, if he’s got an advantage, he owes the Black Widow an opportunity to see some of what he’s got.

When he comes to his last move and opens his eyes, she’s watching avidly, eyes narrow in a _dangerous, take down fast_ kind of assessment.

Red grins again because, yeah, he’s seen that look before. He straightens, working his shoulders and neck again before getting in his opening position. “Ready when you are.”

The slow smile that spreads across the Black Widow’s face is one that promises pain, and he’s more than ready to test it.

As the combatants come together, the programing that _is_ part of Jim Barnes, the Asset, spits out assessments based off watching the kid _move_ across the mats like flowing water and strength and planning. He’s a dangerous little shit, this one. If the table were turned and the Asset’s mission was to take him down, he’d come with big guns and bombs, plenty of clips, mostly trying to take him out from a distance. Yeah, snipering him from a distance would probably be the most effective way since _damn_. Jim picks out at least six different types of martial arts, the kid just sliding from one to the other while Nat keeps being _Nat_ and makes him work for it.

Beside him, Steve is frowning heavily, obviously thinking too hard.

“All right, punk, what is it?” He says from the corner of his mouth, his flesh hand lightly pressing at Steve’s mid-back.

The Hawk glances over and chuffs, “obvious, man.”

Steve just nods once, a jerky motion. Jim just looks at them blankly.

“He’s a _kid_ , Bucky,” Hawk fills in, blinking at him with that _duh, catch the wave_ kind of look. “He’s getting close to out-thinking _Nat_ , and he’s just a fucking _kid_.”

Another nod from Steve.

Jim raises a brow at them, “Seriously? Kids his age an’ younger were going to _war_ in our day, Hawk. He’s bad ass, but you heard him, he’s been doing this shit for years. He’d have to be good since he’s still kicking, right? Otherwise, he’d be dead.”

Hawk and Steve both huff an unfunny laugh.

“Gotta point I guess,” and Hawk goes back to watching.

The bo vanishes and the kid manages two nerve strikes on Widow while she’s in mid-air, going for the neck strangle. And Nat, _fucking Nat_ , grunts when her arm and left leg go numb. Doesn’t stop her or anything, but Jim’s eyes blow wide. “I’m next. Seriously, Stevie, I want **_in_** on this.”

The fella just hums a whole lot of _we’ll see_ while his eyes narrow on Red Robin, ah Tim. Tim Drake.

Meanwhile, Nat is mid-move when she realizes her mistake.

The arms winding through hers, the legs immobilizing hers lead her to that conclusion when he pins her in an incredibly effective hold, fingers pressing into her neck in a pointed message of _don’t move or else_. And as good as she is, Nat knows this kid isn’t going to do anything to seriously injure her; disable, yes; permanent damage, no. He doesn’t have it in him, not like she and Clint do. He’s never killed anyone on command, never had to make a choice to kill someone. And if she wanted to press the issue, she would be the ultimate winner because she could, would, and has taken lives in the name of orders. Looking up into the young man’s face, he sees it. He _knows_ this is only a temporary situation and should they ever come face-to-face in a real fight, in the real world, she would snap his neck without hesitation.

“Nice move,” she draws lazily.

“Thanks.” He replies carefully, cautiously, waiting for the next move.

“Time!” Cap calls from across the mats and the moment is broken.

As the young man releases the hold, Natasha Romanoff takes a moment to review the kid’s reaction and what really disturbed her about it.

He bows to her, a low respectful one while his eyes roll to keep her in his sights (smart). She smirks back, raising a brow as she walks off the mats and Jim holds out his metal hand for her to high-five to tag him in.

Standing by Steve, she watches the change in style and demeanor with the new opponent and the more _up close and personal_ style that is all the Winter Soldier. The pace is more fast and furious, exchanges of fast, hard blows and blocks (luckily, Jim doesn’t have a knife this time around); watching the kid block, dodge, duck, and deliver is really something else.

“What is it?” Hawk finally asks from her left while Steve leans down a little from her right; even with the super hearing, he still gives non-verbal cues for those people that _don’t._

Nat sighs a little, shakes her head at these two. If anyone had told her a year ago anyone other than Bruce Banner, Phil Coulson, Nick Fury, or Clint Barton would recognize her mannerisms like this, she would have laughed so much…

“He’s just a kid,” she shrugs. “He’s a kid that knows I’m a killer. He knows I could have broken that hold and snapped his neck, and that didn’t affect his plan of action.”

Now Steve is looking at her more closely.

She shrugs, “I had a partner like that once. He was a man going through the motions, following orders. He did the job. Eventually, he was killed in the line of duty. It could have been _avoided_.” Nat leaves it at that, watching the kid catch Jim’s metal arm at the joint and pretty much swing around the guy to lock the arm and take the Winter Soldier down to a knee.

“Don’t tell Tony,” Steve whispers roughly after a pregnant pause, “he doesn’t need any more reasons to argue keeping the kid here.”

She makes a rude noise, “it’s enough I told _you_ , Steve. As is, he might work himself into the avenging business.”

Hawk just shrugs, “not going to happen. Kid can’t take a life, and sometimes, that what we’ve gotta do, you know.”

Jim’s hips swivel, wrapping around Tim’s waist, momentum flipping them; the kid pushes only slightly with a bare foot to keep them rolling until he’s on top again.

And as the fight continues, the three others watch with thoughtful eyes.

**

Red doesn’t even think twice, he throws himself in front of Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, bo already in his hand before his mind catches up, his other arm extended to keep them back.

The swirling wind and flickering lights give him a whole lot of _oh shit what now_.

He expects the worst: things that want to kill _anything and everything_. What he gets is…

A tumble of appendages just all over the damn place.

“What the _shit is this_?”

And oh so familiar, just so much love right there. Red grins like an asshole in the face of twin .45 autos less than an inch from his face.

“Hood, glad you made it to the party. Hope you brought the balloons, man.”

“Baby Bird?! _Holy Fuck_ , you mean we can finally get _off this shitty multiverse train_?”

Red turns immediately, dropping his bo, hands out to the Avengers that have stormed in to the Communal Floor with game faces on.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop!! Everyone stop!” He yells as loud as he can, not at all happy with the decidedly _green_ look on Bruce Banner’s face because, yeah, he has no clue how many paralyzing pellets he’d realistically _need_ to subdue the Hulk (okay, so many he calculated once or twice) but he’s pretty damn sure it’s more than he _has_.

“These are the Bats, so it’s _cool_ no fighting needed,” and he turns right back to the Bats, “and these are the Avengers, superheroes in this dimension so no need for scary Bat shit, okay? Everyone, and _I do mean everyone_ just needs to Take. A. Pill. Got it?”

And Tony, “are you telling me this is the Batman? Like, the _real_ Batman?” The mechanic is right beside Red, blinking at the Dark Knight with a grin.

B just puts a hand to Robin’s shoulder, telling the kid without words to ease down on the assassin vibe. “I am.” He acquiesces in that deep, dark tone of _I am the motherfucking night_.

“Wow.” Tony draws out, eyes HUGE. “Bruce Wayne and everything. This is going right on Twitter as #meetthebats, right?”

_Oh. Shit_. B immediately tenses and Red is right there holding his arms out to explain—

But Hood’s got other ideas, .45s in the air again. “How the _fuck_ did you know, man? Baby Bird, you tell this guy who we _are_?”

“No, Hood, wait—!”

The sound of those guns cocking throws the Winter Soldier right into the mix.

And _Oh. Shit. It’s **on**_.

Red makes a noise between exasperated and annoyed when Nightwing has to be _that guy_ and jump right in to the fray along with Hood against a super soldier assassin. And just, fuck, okay? Seriously?? _How the fuck is this his **life** right now? Please don’t kill my childhood heroes, any of them, oh God._

Captain America exchanges a glance with him and they nod at one another before both dive into to potentially deadly fight. Cap has a hold of the Winter Soldier while Red pretty much dives at N and Hood, catching them around the abdomen with both arms to take all three of them to the floor at B’s feet.

“Just _stop_ , okay? Shit. They are this world’s good guys, get it?”

But Hood and N are moving to get their arms around _him_ , pretty much throwing Red behind them, and forming a Bat wall between Red and the Avengers.

“They do anything to you, Baby Bird?” Even with the synths, he can hear a whole lot of _oh shit, **you are in for the fight of your life**_. The Batman is creepily still but he’s tense, ready for the big fight and Robin’s snarl is all about bringing the pain.

“No,” Red snaps out, “Hood, seriously man. They’ve been trying to help me get back, okay? No. Joke.”

Batman’s whiteout lenses swing slightly in his direction, that old signal from back in the day when he was still the _other_ Robin. Just, shit, he’s waiting for the subtle hand motion that mean _scatter_.

“B,” he says a little desperately, “I’m not under any drugs, mind-altering technology, or anything else. Just _listen_ to me, okay?” He slides around the Bats, hands up, palms out. “This _isn’t_ a multiverse dimension. There’s no Gotham, no ‘Haven, no Joker or Two-Face no Ra’s. There’s no _us_ here. This is a completely different dimension, okay?”

“How do you know they’re not really bad guys?” N sneers out, his escrima sticks snapping sharply with the electric shock factor. It’s much appreciated when the Avengers slowly raise their hands, palms out in the universal _oh hey, not dangerous unless you push the issue_ kind of thing. Their expressions say it all.

Red sighs, “I hacked Tony Stark’s AI in my first, like, ten _seconds_ here. Plus, my systems clocked all the inconsistencies. I couldn’t pin point anyone matching our descriptions because they don’t _exist here_. No Gotham, no Central City, no Metropolis. No JLA, no Titans, no Outlaws. Instead, these guys,” he makes a gesture to the Avengers, “and other completely different groups make up this world’s superhero population.”

“Whoa, hold on,” Tony, completely dodging the Winter Soldier’s restraining hand, just comes right up to him, “you _hacked_ J.J.? **_My_** J.J.?” But, the Asset is right there at his side, eyes on the Bats, and gripping Tony’s elbow, like the programming is just _waiting_ for the right signal to toss the engineer out of harm’s way and _kill_.

Red just shrugs a little helplessly, “yes. I’m sorry, but I had to be _sure_ this wasn’t some insane plot by The Light to kill me and kidnap my team for human experimentation. Like, for the tenth time.”

The Avengers have a moment of exchanged glances since, well, they defiately understood crazy supervillain teams.

“Uh-hu. J.J.?”

“Sir. Mr. Robin did not infiltrate your hidden drives, Stark Industry files, or the SSARAS network. I allowed him access to the Avenger’s open feed and previous battle schematics. He also accessed Google, Facebook, and Wimp.com.”

Tony’s jaw clenches a little and he glares slightly at Red’s chagrin expression (since, well, Wimp.com is _the shit_ ). Abruptly, the mechanic pulls away from the Asset and takes the smaller man’s arm in both of his, glaring turns to the Bats.

“We totally want _to keep him_ and, yes, I will still try to convince him that _my_ toys are better. So _there_.”

Red bursts out in an abrupt belly laugh, just letting his arm be hugged against one of the smartest men on the planet.

**

And everyone else is apparently with him on the whole _no idents why bother with masks and shit_ thing. Even B drops the cowl, his eyes hard and dark because, well, _fuckery_ and all. Tim hides a grin, but B’s eyes narrow anyway.

Cap, true to form, holds out a hand for him to shake. “Sir, honored to meet you. I…well, Thor and I have been keeping up with your comics.”

Bruce straightens a little, takes the Cap’s hand after a moment deliberating. “From my understanding, Captain Rogers, you not only helped end the second World War but more recently saved the Earth from a massive alien invasion. Perhaps I should be the one honored to meet you.”

Cap grins at him with the _aw shucks_ twinkle in his eye.

N’s jaw just _drops_ , “B! _You_ watched the Avengers movie?”

Dami blows out an irritated sigh, “it was our— _bonding_ night. Pennyworth insisted.”

N laughs like an asshole since, well, _that_ image right there, and grins down at the teenager while Hood makes kissy noises in the background (and dodges a very pointed elbow to the solar plexus). Red…is staying the hell away from that shit—and will later give Alfred a high-five when everyone else is out of the room.

“Just Steve, Mr. W—uh, Batman. Not in uniform right now, so just Steve.”

“Bruce is fine. We don’t have identities to protect here, no need to use the cowl.”

Tony, on the other hand, puts a mug down on the island by a gauntleted hand while Jim, who is considerably _calmer_ , picks up the fresh pot of coffee. Steve grins broadly and makes his way down the line of Bats.

“Tony Stark, co-team leader and build-it guy. I’ll show you the pom-poms later,” he waves carelessly over his shoulder from the cabinet. “Iron Man, former weapons dealer, yada, yada.”

B looks his usual combo of unimpressed, “I take it you aren’t dying of palladium poisoning anymore?”

Dami, however, _does_ look impressed, “ah, so you _were_ paying attention, Father.”

B just arches a brow at the youngest Bat since, you know, World’s Greatest Detective and shit.

Tony, however, tenses immediately when Jim completely **stops** and the Avengers (except for Nat because, well, she knew all about it) turn on him.

Bruce, however, get the whole lot of implications with using palladium and he _definitely_ knows where the element was used—his eyes go right to the glowing arc. “Please, _please_ tell me that’s just creative movie license and you didn’t _really_ use palladium for the core of the arc reactor.”

Hawk, perched up on the counter in a crouch, just waves a hand, “lemme throw this out there, Bruce: yes.”

“Good _God_ , _Tony_ , the properties of palladium are—“

The mechanic in question finally turns, two mugs dangling off his thumbs when he hold up both hands. “Brucie-Bear, that was in the first year, okay? Yes, I know, terribly poisonous substances in the arc is so seriously science gone wrong. My bad. But, it led to several _good_ things—“

“Why ain’t I picking up what yer laying down, Tones?” Jim interrupts snidely, looking decidedly _unhappy_.

“So. Rude. Jim. No, really, Pepper took over as CEO of Stark Industries, I did a _hell_ of a lot more research into actually starting SSARAS and created F.R.I.D.A.Y for in case another AI would be needed for  after I was _gone_ —“ he sets the other mugs down for Hood and Nightwing.

“Not. Making. It. Better.” Cap interjects harshly. “Darn it, Tony. You—“

Hood turns to N and mouths _‘Darn it?_ ’ while Jim Barnes pours coffee for the Bats.

“Cap,” Tony just steps back a little helplessly, arms crossed over his chest, blocking out the arc’s light, “there was nothing, _nothing_ else I could do at the time until I figured out vibranium. It was either let the palladium poison me or die of shrapnel making its way to my heart. Either or.”

Yup, there it is, long suffering sigh right from Cap.

Nat slaps a hand right in the center of Steve’s chest, “if it _helps_ , Fury knew what was going on. That undercover thing? That’s why. It also let me stab Tony is the neck with sharp, pointy things. Very good assignment.”

Bruce, Jim, and Cap have the _ah-ha_ moment, and Nat just leans to the side, holding a hand out to Bruce, “Natasha Romanoff.”

B’s smile is calculating because he’d would be very _interested_ to see Cass take this woman down. “Bruce Wayne. My sons, Dick, Jason, and Damian. You’ve already met Tim. My daughter, Cassandra is watching Gotham in our absence.”

Thor points a godly finger, “she is the Black Bat! Ah, a warrior of worth I would have been proud to meet.”

And finally, B’s mouth tilts just enough to be considered a half smile. “Cass is…definitely a warrior,” he sticks out his gauntleted hand to the God of Thunder. “Bruce.”

“Ah, yes, Thor, son of Odin and Freiga. A pleasure, Dark Knight, to share stories of valor with you.” The God bows slightly, and B returns the motion, shaking his hand.

“Bruce Banner,” the doctor gives a wave, “biochemist.”

“He also turns into a huge, green rage-monster,” Tony side-whispers.

“The Hulk!” And Hood comes right up, grinning like a douche. “Wow, man. Nice ta meetcha.”

“Oh, same to you, Jason” Bruce smiles and shakes the offered, gloved hand.

“Aw, no need to be shy about it. You smash shit, we smash people’s faces. All in a day’s work, you know? Believe me. Die once and _that_ gives you some fucking _perspective_.”

Bruce’s lips twitch slightly, “actually, I believe you.”

“I tell a _mean_ dead-Robin joke you know. Better than Supe’s stupid traveling salesman jokes _any_ day.”

“Supes? _Superman?_ ”

“Oh hell yeah. Clark has zero sense of good humor. You wouldn’t believe it, but that guy should _never_ do stand-up. Ever.”

“Totally true,” N says over one shoulder while Clint shows him the extensive collection of cereal in one cupboard, trying very hard _not_ to eye the skintight Nightwing suit (and what the fuck is with those fingerstripes? The guy trying to make his costume all about sex or what?). “I blame Smallville for it.”

“I call bullshit on you, Dickie. Your jokes are _ass_.”

“Both of you lack comedic appeal,” Dami throws out absently from his spot, sitting cross-legged on the island while he watches Tim work the holograms with more data from B’s belt computer.

“ _Seriously_ , Demon?” Jay squawks, turning away from Bruce (who hastily retreats) with hands on his hips and an arched brow, “you wouldn’t know a good fucking joke if it bit you in the _nuts_.”

B closes his eyes, rubs the bridge of his nose.

Jim, however, laughs hard. “Tony, can we keep this guy, too? I like ‘im.” Metal thumb hitched in Jay’s direction, the soldier has the old smile, the one from the black and white movie reels, and Tony grins a little in response.

“Fucking. Righteous.” Jay holds out a fist for a bump, “we can blow shit the fuck up and bond over bonging beers.”

“Yeah? Seems like you got a plan, fella.” Jim does the thing with the fist bump, “howz about we go down to the rank and see what you can do with those pea shooters?”

“Heh. Buddy, I’m a classy chick. You wanna get me all hot n’ bothered, better buy me dinner first. Dickie’s the one that puts out on the first date.”

And Jim _dies_ while N has less than a second of _affronted vigilante_ and has to defend his honor by pulling out the acrobatics to full-out body _tackle_. Steve whistles low under his breath since that fella makes _Nat_ look uncoordinated.

“All right,” Tim cracks his neck audibly, “we have a problem. J.J.? Would you check the results?”

“I am afraid I already have, Master Robin—“

“Tim, please.”

“Of course Master Tim. Your calculations are correct. The anomalies have indeed been plotted on purpose.”

He blows out a sigh, “ _fuck_. Figures. Okay—“ he turns to pace while Dami watches and B moves to look at the holographic screens, N and Jay…roll around on the floor a little more and bounce off whatever furniture they can, delivering stunning blows to one another in between the Avengers. Dick is laughing when he catches a light fixture and does the famous quadruple right to the island, his body a terrifying and powerful arc of strength.

Tim starts with the planning, not even giving them two seconds. “Someone sent us here on purpose. I was thrown into the first portal in New York mid-Captain Boomerang ass-kicking, B dropped in fighting the Joker, Hood while taking on Anarky, N Deathstroke, and Dami Leviathan...” and _oh shit, there’s a pattern_. He stops cold. Boomerang killed his father; the Joker is the criminal B fears the most (next to Ra’s), Jay was facing _the Joker’s son_ , Dick has always had a _thing_ about Slade Wilson, and the Heretic was with Leviathan when Dami was murdered.

“We were set up,” Tim’s fists tighten, the gloves creaking. “Someone knew enough about us to set up the trap. That’s why we all ended up _here_ , a completely different dimension rather than our own universe. The fights were planned out—“

B’s hand is on his shoulder, those blue eyes _getting it too_.

“We’ve gotta find out who sent us to the Marvel Universe, B. Fast. Whoever it is wanted us either _out_ of the way or _in_ the way.”

“Apparently.  The distractions worked well enough on all of us, Tim.”

“Whoa. Waitaminute, short shit, move over,” Jay is done dusting off his jacket and jumps up enough to fold himself on top the island beside Dami, “you tellin’ me some asshat pitted us against our favorite love-to-hate-‘em motherfuckers to what? Get us out of the way?”

“Or,” Steve cuts in, “knows enough about both universes to send you _specifically here_.”

He and Tony exchange a glance since well, _not the first time_ the universe sent other heroes when _shit is ready to hit the fan_.

“Whatever you need,” Tony finally offers, stone serious. “You have the full support of the Avengers.” Even though it would really just _suck so much_ to lose Tim. A terrible, terrible travesty.

The Batman nods once, his eyes hard, cold.

But Jason Todd just tisks at the group, “too late for take backs, buddy. You’re gonna regret saying that,” and his white grin edges on the line between sane and bat-shit crazy.

But Tony laughs a little, arms over the arc reactor as he gives Jason a full smile. "Joke's on you, I  _live_ for crazy shit like this, so we are totally going to have the  _hasta luego_ part of the year."


	10. Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to give in...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the 'I'm seriously going to hell' chapter. Warning: Explicit No likey, no read.

His hands tighten, the muscles in his forearms strain while he tries to stay somewhat grounded, but the task is like trying to hold on to shadows, something that slips through his fingers anyway.

The movement behind him causes another wave throughout his body and he keens, head back against the hard muscle of Dick's shoulder. He's panting like a teenager, thighs trembling with effort while the taller, older man is apparently trying to make him _insane_.

The chest presses harder against his back while those hips swivel and drive deeper and deeper inside him, bringing them so close together, Tim forgets where he ends and Dick begins. But that's Dick's purpose in this, isn't it? To join them as close as he can, “ _I’m going to show you, Tim, how much I **need** you_ …”

"God!" A particular hard thrust almost has him coming, forced him to reach down and fist himself at the base to stop the orgasm from pouring out. He's not ready for this to end yet. Not when he's waited so fucking _long_.

Dick's hair sweeps over his face, that mouth on his neck, sucking and licking, the edge of teeth that in no way interrupt the smooth glide of his hips, filling Tim up to the brink over and over.

"I love this," the older man's voice is wrecked, "how warm you are, how _open_ for me, Tim. Fuck, how sensitive..." A hard, deep thrust seats Dick inside him to the hilt, and he just stays there, buried, moaning against Tim's neck, his hands still splaying, moving, touching Tim's front like he needs to memorize all that skin, to touch all those scars.

The younger manages to get a hand on Dick's neck and turn him so their mouths can meet, can lick and bite and pour need into one other. Tim is the one that moves in tight little circles, clenching around the hard length buried inside him. He simulates the movement with his tongue wrapped around Dick's, sucking it into his mouth.

The older man groans, tightens a hand on one hip so he can wetly glide again, his cock so unbearably hard as he goes back to that rolling rhythm that touches everything inside, hitting his spot right on before the slow, sweet drag halfway out. The motion makes Tim's thighs weak with it, with the feel, the care, the strength behind him in Dick's abdomen and chest and arms all against him. He's so turned on, so desperate to come he almost can't stand it and Dick _knows_ , he knows it all. Tim's body gives him all the signs he needs.

"So beautiful, Baby Bird," kisses to his sweaty neck again while a hard thrust seats Dick fully inside him again, making him pant with his head thrown back.

"Not me," half groan, half snarl, "you, Dick, _you_ …God! _Fuck_ , it's too good. Oh my God, you feel too good inside me. Ah…"

His body strains under Dick's hands, the muscles pulling taunt, trembling with the effort to hold on, to hold out against his release.

"Yes, _yes_ , you too, Timmy, so fucking _perfect_. So mine, all mine, aren't you?"

"Yes… _Fuck,_ you _know—_!"

"Good. I'll take care of you, Tim. I'll make you crazy like this," those hands skim over his nipples, tweaking, rolling until another cry is wrung from the younger, "every time. I'll make love to you until you can't move. Until you come apart for me over and _over_."

Tim's face is red, his hard cock leaking and straining, the words go straight to his heart, somewhere deep he'd buried the need for this, for sex, for Dick, for love and endearments, and empty promises. But it's okay, if this is the only time he gets this, it's really okay, isn't it? He'll at least have this to remember…

"Please," the shaky man whispered against Dick's neck, biting his lip hard enough to puncture.

Kisses to his cheek, "anything. Just don't make me let you go…"

And fuck if that didn't go right for his jugular.

"Dick, God, _Dick_."

And that mouth comes right to his ear, sending another shiver down his spine, "I know what you need, Tim. I'm going to give it to you. Soon, little brother. You can hold on for me. I know you can."

"For you," the younger trembles, hands flexing into fists while he moves in time with the elder.

And skin presses against skin, the smoother glide of ecstasy and need, the pressure building up into unbearable sweetness. The exchange of breath and heat and sounds from one mouth to another, hands moving to capture the texture of other flesh, and gazes blown with lust and feelings make the two a picture of perfection on top Dick's messy sheets.

Tim's chest is heaving as he pants, eyes heavy-lidded while noises spill out against the night. He can only feel the hands tight on his hips, the movement in and out of his body, the sweat trailing down his chest, the deep rumble of Dick's growl at his back.

"I… I can't…,Dick!"

"I know Baby Bird, I know… I'm so close but I don’t want to _stop_. I want to stay just like this with _you_."

Nose right behind Tim's ear, Dick finally reaches around, palms the younger man while speeding up the pace of his hips, driving deeper, hitting the right spot with each thrust.

And Tim keens with it all, with the combination of their scents, the rough texture of the scar on Dick's thigh below his hand, those blue, blue eyes boring into him to try taking him apart, make him a completely different kind of naked. And the taste is back when Dick's tongue curls around his, licking, sucking, demanding, taking him apart, breaking down all his carefully constructed walls, stripping him of all the masks so he's just inexplicably _Tim_ …

Dick wants him to be _just Tim_ -

"I'll never let you go," a hoarse whisper, a promise right against his jugular. "Now that I know. Now that I _get it_. I'll never let you go."

Something fragile and buried and deep rises, no matter how hard he fights it, how hard he's worked to keep it buried.

"You'll break me," comes tumbling out after a keening cry. "I can't-!"

Dick speeds up, his hands gripping harder, inescapable. "No, Timmy, never again. I'll never push you away again. I need you. God, I _need_ you."

The hard thrust against the perfect spot makes him see bursts of light, makes him spasm, writhe. His own voice hoarse when he yells.

"Now, Baby Bird. Come for me. God, please, _come for me_."

And the dark seduction, the edge of the Bat, the demand, the order makes his body give in, the warmth and pleasure of orgasm explode, expand.

And Dick fucks him through it, turns his head to he can be seen because Dick forces him _to be_ (already been abandoned once), so he can stare into those eyes while his body comes apart at the seams. Lets him spasm and slam his hips back to get _more_.

He's gasping for air, dizzy, eye fluttering with the impact, with the aftershocks, with Dick still moving, still driving, still one with him, still intensely watching him.

And Tim's eyes are open wide when Dick's flutter, when the feel intensifies again and he's filled, the sound of Dick's capitulations right reverberating through his entire body when Dick's chest vibrates against his back.

It's the best and worst thing he thinks he's ever seen

**

And in the morning, he does the right thing.

Silent, trying to drive his thoughts to being ONE with the shadows, he dresses silently, not waking the sleeping older man still lying in bed, gloriously naked, an arm lying limply where his hip was a few minutes ago..

This…will be easier on them both in the long run. Like when he disappeared right after Dami got the cape. This way there would be no awkward silences, no stuttered explanations, no serious-faces talks about the one-time thing. The adrenaline that drove them, Tim's old hero worship, the Bats trying to get him _back_. All that shit would come into play, Dick's attempt to make them okay again, to shove their relationship back into a perfect box to suit his needs.

But, well, _too late_. The box is broken, the big brother/little brother broke long before this, had started coming back together with duct tape and glue when those fuckers decided he’d been gone too long and the _Tim Drake Problem_ stopped being, well, a _problem_.

Last night left that metaphorical box in broken pieces inside the front door of the apartment, right when Dick pushed him against the wall, trapped him, and kissed him on the mouth for the first time.

Tim had come close to punching the guy because, well, _Jason you douche_.

_“He knows,” those **eyes** , “Tim, he’s **always** known. It’s there for him too. For tonight, just us. You and me. If he’s there for you, if **we’re** there for you…Tim, we won’t let you **go**.”_

Only an idiot would have said no, would have pushed Dick Grayson away a second time knowing he had his boyfriend’s blessing.

But the box, the relationship with the Bats, the _everything_. All of it changed, and he should have—

_Fuck_.

So he has his backpack, letting himself out of the apartment, almost running so he can be out of Gotham as fast as he can, faster if he can manage it. No need to make this complex or painful. In a few weeks he can come back and be fine. Would be able to look the older man in the face again without thinking _'Finally, you kept me. Just for a while, but you didn't throw me away.'_

An hour is all it takes to be in the modified Batwing, heading for Titan's Tower.


	11. Night Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone finally turns eighteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I got a comment about Tim/Dami when Dami got, you know, older. This is just a bit of a drabble. Not really read for grammar and whatnot, so forgive the mistakes.

And it's of course rote: Gotham always has protectors. Even if it isn't the Bat, some of his team is patrolling the city to cause trouble in the murky depths of the underbelly.

When it's the Birds of Prey, well, there must be some momentous occasion. And that…is Damaian's eighteenth birthday.

The kid, in late from patrol the night before, rose at eleven to a special breakfast made by Alfred, and all the Bats in attendance to share the day with him. Even after years in the family, part of the whole, he seemed surprised and pleased when even Cass, Steph, and O were crowded around the table with Jay, Dick, Tim, and B.

"It is simply another day," the kid had tried to protest while Alfred laid a plate of his favorites in front of him along with his morning tea rather than the coffee he normally drank. "Thank-you, Pennyworth."

"Demon Brat," Jay cuts in with a grin, "you're 18th is important. Means you're a legal little shit now, you know. Bat-Dad doesn't have that much of a leash on you anymore."

"My age does directly affect my duties."

"No, but the law recognizes you as an adult now," Tim shrugs. "Eighteen is a big deal, Dami, worth celebrating. Congratulations."

"Well, that and the fact you lived this long. No one's killed you again." Steph cuts in with a grin.

"-tt-" his normal but the kid is grinning at the table full. "Then since you all seem to emphasize it, I will keep complaints to myself _this_ time."

And through eating, the usual banter runs through the crowd of siblings, Dick telling terrible jokes (making Dami say _asparagus_ because, wow, hilarious), Jay making innuendos about being 'an adult' with a knowing leer, Steph right on the bandwagon with him, offering to give Baby Bat a lesson in what women like and Cass almost choking on her eggs. Tim just facepalming while he laughs because, _these guys_ , and B sympathetically patting his son's shoulder but doing nothing to dissuade the teasing.

"No, seriously, Dami," Jay is almost crying by now, "I know a girl, totally clean, regular check-ups, she'd treat you right!"

Dick is feverently trying to breathe, but he’s _dying_.

"If it wouldn’t irritate Pennyworth, I would just stab you in the larynx," Damian finally deadpans not looking at anyone but his cheeks are a little rosy.

But since Dami has been at ease in the family for years, no one takes him seriously. Instead, the catcalls around the table just make it all the more sweeter.

**

The part at WE is one of those terribly snooty affairs no one but Dick realistically enjoys (since his game is so definitely _on_ during these things) when the upper echelons of Gotham come out to drink the best booze, eat the more exotic h’orderves, and try to do business with the Wayne family. All of them have been subjected to more than one proposition during galas (Tim, unknown by the rest of the family, has been hit on the most, even more than Dick. Partially because he's a powerhouse in a small package and apparently assumed to be the power bottom _of the year_. Just, that _ass_ ).

Damian's 18th party seems to follow the same conventions. Keeping with their running tally, Dick has ducked away from three half-drunk socialites offering the best orgy of his life (two _hot_ vigilantes, sweethearts, you couldn't hold _a candle_ ) only to be subjected to his charming smile and denial as it's his little brother's birthday.

Bruce has 'accidentally' spilled his scotch all over the swingers making the usual innuendos, and Dami's arched eyebrow stops a rich associate’s daughter mid-way through an offer when he conveys with that eyebrow alone how much he hopes the this is an elaborate _joke_.

The topper of the night, however, is when the Waynes meander closer to their cornered fourth, drawn by the absolute repulsion the normally calm, cool, and collected CEO's face.

Damian gets within reach first, just in time to hear-

"-really, Tim, the things I could do to you. That body. I could fuck you so good, make you _beg_ for it. God, I'd make you suck me dry, tell you how pretty you are, how good you are for me-"

The moment Damian is ready to literally tear the pervert away, Tim's smile becomes cutting, sinister in a way that usually makes the younger man's blood run cold (and more recently, _hot_ in the same instance).

Tim steps up to the business man and talks low, lower than Damian and the approaching Dick can hear. But whatever he says has the appropriate effect as the man turns an alarming shade of pale before he stumbles over his own feet to _escape_. Tim is just smirking darkly, arms crossed over his chest.

The CEO gives a wave to his brothers and ducks around a pillar to return to the bar for another glass of champagne.

**

In another hour, the party is winding down and the Wayne family has gravitated toward the long staircase.

"Please tell me we can leave," Damian mutters under the charming smile still on his face for onlookers.

Bruce hums, "another hour, then we'll be in the clear."

"Timmy must have gotten lost," Dick breathes out with a laugh, "haven't seen him in a while."

"Working," Bruce and Dami say in the same instance and then look at one another. This time the grin between father and son is genuine.

"I am in need of a break; I will check his office." With a wave, he moves around the main blocks of partygoers, still taking time here and there to accept well wishes from Gotham's elite before reaching the elevators (where he can actually breathe and massage the bridge of his nose in the attempt to fight off an impending migraine. What he wouldn't give to be out with Jason on patrol tonight).

Tim's office is locked on the first try, but Damian is a Bat. A few seconds and he has the door open, sliding inside.

Smiling faintly from the large window, Tim just shakes his head a little.

"Not bad. Maybe we'll do a blindfolded night for shits and giggles, huh?"

A smile quirks at that but Dami just crosses the room at an easy pace, coming to stand at Tim's side (just like when they're masked on a ledge looking down as the city sleeps) to peer out at the night.

"I may have too much enjoyment with that," the youngest of the Bat clan admits.

"Just like the rest of us. It's all about the challenge." Tim tips his flute before taking a drink.

The laugh rumbles from his chest as he realizes the complete truth in that statement. Father, Dick, Jason, Tim, Stephanie, Cassandra, Barbara, and even Alfred—all of them up for the next trial, the next in line. "More true than most believe, I would say." He glances over at the shorter man with an arched brow, "I had almost convinced myself you stole away to patrol for the night."

And the minute change in posture, something only one who has studied the book that is Tim Drake, is telling. Damian's eyes narrow as he turns to face the older man fully, reaching out to take the flute, bringing it to his nose.

"Apple juice," the younger sighs because _of course_.

"I'm going," Tim insists, tossing his head over to the seemingly innocent private washroom. "It's your big night, Baby Bat. You and B and Dick should be enjoying it—"

But the younger already has a hold of Tim's wrist, pulling him along to the washroom and closing the door behind them.

"As if a party of insufferable, selfish perverts that care nothing for me is worth it," Damian deadpans, touching the far wall with the correct pattern, setting his palm above the paper towel dispenser. A small noise and the wall moves silently, seamlessly to the hidden room inside.

Dami gives another tug of Tim's wrist, leading him toward the gurney as the lights flash on automatically and the door slides silently closed, hiding the room again. The mini Bat bunker is usually stocked with medical supplies and food for the occasional injury or emergency stop over while in Gotham proper. The back elevator down to the private garage is just another benefit to the layout.

Tim obligingly shrugs out of his suit jacket without a twinge (as he, like B, is optimal in hiding injuries), and the crisp shirt beneath is fairly saturated with blood at the right shoulder.

Turning, the younger man tisks sharply, obviously angry.

The elder simply waves a hand in dismissal.

Gloves and a pack of medical grade thread, Dami takes a quick moment to text Father and Grayson, let them know they will not be back down for some time and give the appropriate excuses.

Grayson, ever the worry wort (even after he and Todd have parted ways on amicable terms with Drake) and elder brother, immediately demands to know everything. It would serve Drake right if he took a photo and sent it just to see the oldest son come crashing through the door to be the mother hen of the Bat sons and berate Drake for his lack of communication. However, a look at the concealer under Tim’s eyes tells him the usual sleep deprivation could have multiple implications; the excess stress would not be necessary, possibly detrimental. Drake could take off.

A simple, _checking in with patrol, Grayson, calm down,_ is sufficient.

However, as Damian helps peel off the shirt and tank underneath, he tisks again at the blood and broken stitches, wondering if he should call Grayson or Father after all.

"Not bad," Tim reassures after seeing the expression on Dami's face. "I can do it myself, Dami."

Sighing, that green gazes fixes on him. "This is more than a glass of juice will help, Tim."

"So I'll drink another," and the teasing, lightness has been hard won for them both throughout the years, once Damian and the others truly realized the depths of this man, and understood his separation from the family had never been of his own choosing. Four years ago, they had come too close to losing him, driving him out of the family, ignoring his futile attempts to fight for a place. If they had failed… Damian refuses to consider the possibilities and what if's.

Still, Tim has his own agenda, his own team, his own demons to face, but the other Bats have had a part in his life, refusing to repeat old mistakes.

Dami sighs unhappily.

"Okay, okay," Tim finally gives. "You stitch me back up and I will sleep eight hours. I swear."

"You must sleep eight hours and consume over seven hundred calories tomorrow. Not including coffee or sweets," Dami bargains shrewdly.

But Tim's eyes are narrow, calculating. "Five hundred and coffee totally counts. Plus, _eight whole hours_."

And in his head, Dami goes to a whole different place with the implications. Since he's been _wanting_ for longer than he can realistically remember. Even when they were at each other's throats, he felt something more than disdain for the older man, always determined to force Drake to recognize him—as a Bat, a Robin, a member of the family. To recognize he had _worth_ , had a _place_.

Later, even before Grayson and Todd began their unsubtle seduction, he realized the feelings for this man were more…complex than he initially anticipated. Watching the liquid grace of Drake's moves walking, running, fighting, flying, and everything in between made him warm, made him appreciate absently, unconsciously. The feelings faded when he found out Todd and Grayson succeeded in their seductions, but did not completely leave him. No, he was…satisfied the two took care of Drake as the man obviously needed a keeper for the sake of his own health (since The Titans have proven less than successful, _-tt-_ ).

Now, however, Damian is an appropriate age (finally) in this culture, and Tim is not attached, or so he assumes.

The numbing spray at work, Damian carefully threads the needle, stepping close, in between Tim's thighs, his own hips spreading them (that though gives him a noticeable pause, makes Tim raise a brow at him).

As gently as possible, he guides the needle through the torn and broken skin in his own parody of Pennyworth's masterful stitches, remembering to tie each knot close to the skin for added strength, eyes narrow on his work. He makes certain it is done well as the first set have been unsuccessful.

"It's fine, you know, but I still appreciate it." Tim interjects with that small half-smile, the genuine one when he means something.

Dami hums a little, his own smile a bit more sharp, but no less sincere, "this is the nature of family as you once told me, yes?"

"Uh, yeah." Now a light pink hints his cheeks and the older man chuffs a laugh. "We take care of our own."

One of Dami's brows hikes up, "Drake. Honestly. You barely allow your body what it must have to function. Of all the Bats, you are simply the _worst_ at caring for yourself."

And as the younger man expected, Tim just chuffs a laugh, "yeah, yeah. I need a keeper. Don't you say that enough? Still here, aren't I?"

"Only because God favors the ill and mentally infirm." Dami hums back at him, eyes sliding from his work to Tim's softly smiling face, the overly fond look that is rare and yet…gives the youngest Bat pause, leaves him staring as the expression is directed at him.

' _Such a complicated mixture of strength and weakness… I would give too much to test these boundaries._ '

Tim's mouth moves and Dami blinks, realizes his name is being spoken while he was staring at the slightly pink lines and textures of those lips. The hand on his bicep is not demanding nor uncomfortable.

"Dami, what is it?"

And those eyes, a deeper blue than his own and Father's, than Todd's or Grayson's.  He blinks again, remembering what he should be doing.

"I…am of legal age, Tim. Apparently as of several hours ago." And his gaze is focused on the final few, hands moving more easily than when he begun.

Fingers on his jaw turn his gaze back to those eyes. "Again, congrats. Want to tell me where your thought are at?"

And, Damian's eyes slide back to the next stitch while he considers his thoughts.

"It's okay to tell me," Tim inserts quietly into his musing.

"You are one of the few people I trust explicitly, Tim. You are already aware." And the last one done. Damian snips the thread carefully after the knot. Some of Pennyworth's special healing concoction, and Damian tapes a gauze pad then winds a bandage for extra protection.

He lifts his forearm, presses the bare skin against Tim's forehead to gauge his temperature as the older man's lack of immunities are always a cause for concern.

Tim merely laughs again but tolerates the care.

"You're deflecting."

"Merely gathering my thoughts."

"Ah." And that easy smile again.

"Let me test the waters so to speak."

"Sure," while Dami removes the gloves and begins the clean-up.

"When you, Todd, and Grayson agreed to part ways, was it truly amicable?"

And Tim blinks since this is not where he expected to go. He, Jay, and Dick made one hell of an effort to keep everything professional, brotherly around Dami, B, and Alfred.

"The truth," Dami clarifies, "I will hold your confidence."

And a pause long enough for the youngest Bat to dig around in the medicinal cupboard for antibiotics, open the mini fridge for that deplorable Zesti.

"It was amicable," Tim finally replies softly, the tone belaying his conviction.

Dami drops the pills in his hand. "I do not believe you."

Tim sighs a little before he takes the pills, swallows them with the Zesti. "They did, Dami. That's what mattered at the time."

And…Dami’s eyes close briefly as he now he understands what had happened. Obviously, he should not have asked for the truth outright. "Tim…"

"They're in love with each other." Tim clarifies. "A third makes things more difficult than it needs to be for them. I understand that and I'm the one that called it off."

Dami reaches out, grips Tim's wrist in one hand, but that terrible smile— one of Tim's many masks— doesn't even flinch. The pulse under Dami's fingers is steady, a little hard.

"You did not wish to," and now the possibilities start changing.

"At the time, no, I didn't." And admitting it is hard for Tim, something pulled out. Dami's grip tightens slightly as he boosts himself up beside the older man to listen, the outside of their thighs pressing together.

"But…it's better now. I've had time to adjust, to move forward." He shrugs with his good shoulder. "I'm happy knowing they're happy."

"It's only been a few months, Tim," Dami counters gently.

"Yeah."

"I am… _sorry_ to dredge it up."

"It's okay. They don't know. I didn't want to put my hang-ups on them. They…this is the right call, Dami."

Dami's hand slides down a little so he can thread his fingers in Tim's. "If they asked for you back-"

"No," immediately as though Tim has already considered it. "No. Not again. I _can't_ … No."

Dami nods a little now, his thumb making circles, relaying support, comfort in his own way, without words.

"There's a reason you're asking." Tim points out shrewdly. "Dick—?"

"No," Dami assures immediately. "Not for years. A fascination perhaps once puberty began. I soon realized he was too much my brother to maintain a romantic interest."

Tim nods, doesn't pull his hand away. "Then Jay—"

"You," He interrupts again to halt this useless inquiry. "For the last several years, Tim. _You_."

The older man sucks in a surprised breath and truly, it is an achievement to be able to shock Tim Drake that Dami is momentarily pleased with himself.

"Me?" A little breathless, tentative.

Dami hums a little, eyes drawn to their hands, thumbs moving. "Yes. While Grayson and Todd took care of you, I was satisfied. There was no need to make my… _interest_ known. I was also not an age deemed appropriate by this culture, and you would have immediately disregarded any amorous attempts on my part." And he looks up, finds Tim watching him intently.

Damian can see the thoughts turning, the detective.

"Do not feel indebted because I have told you this. It is not necessary you return the sentiment, Tim."

"Do me a favor," Tim draws out passively. "Stop talking."

Damian closes his mouth and blinks because Tim's hand releases his fingers, moves to the back of his neck. But it's Damian that leans in across the space and presses their lips together.

And Tim's mouth is soft, pliant, and willing; his lips part when the right angle presents itself and _taste, wet, perfect_ come to the forefront of his mind. It's slow and easy at first since one of them is injured and the other uncertain of his boundaries (this is different, much different than any of his previous experience perhaps because it is with an older, _knowledgeable_ man or perhaps because this moment has been a fantasy for too long).

Damian waits for Tim to lead, to allow more when their tongues tangle, and soft noises are captured, swallowed, echoed.

When they inevitably part, both men are trying to catch their breath, heat and want mirrored in blue eyes.

"Damn, Baby Bat," Tim's voice hoarse and edged with something deep and dark, different than Red Robin in fight mode- no, this tone produces a completely different type of shudder.

"It would be wise," and his tone is no better, "of you to let me see you home, Tim. You are _injured_ after all."

A soft laugh from the older Bat, "That I am. It hurts oh so much. I might need a nurse or some shit, right?"

A smile cuts of Damian's face since they are exactly on the same page, "I would think so since, as I have pointed out before, how terrible you are at caring for yourself."

Tim hums a little, his expression soft and more open than the younger man can remember. But when he speaks, there is a wealth in his tone, warning, "takes someone with a lot of patience to put up with my shenanigans, Dami."

And the younger Bat reads into it _run while you can_. The smile that cuts across his face, the same one when he easily picked the lock to the office, reads _challenge accepted_.

"—tt—. As if I have not done so for years. Honestly, Tim." And he slides off the table to stand, turns so he is parting Tim’s thighs with his hips again, looking slightly down. His thumb traces gently over Tim’s slightly swollen bottom lip, his gaze inexplicably drawn there.

A soft breath and Tim opens, takes the digit in his mouth, eyes never leaving him while he _sucks_ and a shudder, a stab of _heat_ goes through Damian in a burst of lust.

“Tim…” and he can’t help himself, not with those eyes half-mast and starting to warm, to seduce.

Sharp edge of teeth against his thumb before Tim lets him go.

“I’m not going to make it _easy_ on you, Dami,” Tim slides off the gurney, forcing the younger back a step, and his breath catches, imagining that look on Tim’s face while they’re bare, pressing against one another—

Both hands framing that face, holding him still when Damian lowers his head to bring them together again. This time, he cannot be _careful_ and _tentative_. No, he simply cannot.

His hand sliding down to curl around Tim’s waist, pulling him closer so they’re pressed together, is lost in the heat, the nips, the playful suck at his bottom lip, at the change in angle, of the beat of his pulse.

Tim has a hand at the back of his neck, the grip tight and that strength alone is enough for Damian to pant.

“I take it,” against that _mouth_ , “you have similar feelings for me?”

“You were too young for me to bring it up,” is the only answer he’s going to get, but that in itself is answer enough. Enough to make him want to lift Tim back on the gurney and strip him down, to reveal the flesh for his exploration, for his _pleasure_. Enough to make him delve back into the perfection of the kiss. Enough to roll up hips against Tim’s and find they are _both_ aroused because of _this_.

“We could,” muttered between kisses while Dami’s hand slides down to palm the side of Tim’s throat, “the Perch.”

“Mm. So none of them will walk in on us?”

“Exactly.”

“Excellent plan as I take is as a personal _challenge_ to make you keen, Tim.”

“Fuck, dirty talker, Baby Bat?”

“You shall have to wait and see,” Damian already has Tim’s wrist in hand, pulling him to the back stairs where undercover cars waited.

“…honestly, can’t wait,” is the truth as he follows the taller Bat, already loosening his tie without a hitch.


	12. Fracture/Forward Momentum Crossover II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you just need a good fight to get the ideas flowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Graywhims, who put the idea there and needs more, allseer15 who’s on this train, ellanightingale to settle and bake in, and travelfan that just, yeah, so much loves. This. THIS. This ran away with me, seriously. I. Regret. NOTHING.

The alarm is blaring, lighting up the Tower with the impending _shit is going to get bad_ warning.

“Are we sure about this?” Steve as _Captain America_ throws out while he’s tugging his uniform on over his undershirt and strapping things in place.

Tony gives him a patient look, mostly already in Iron Man while random and various pieces keep flying around the Common Room floor, trying to attach to the constantly moving mechanic.

Other heads, not on the team, swivel sharply because _oh yeah, how are you planning on finishing **that** sentence?_

“—aren’t part of our world. This isn’t their responsibility.” Cap is striding, picks up the semiautomatic rifle and flings it with a careless toss. The metal hand snatches it mid-air from the island where Jim just finishes strapping on the face mask to become the Winter Soldier.

Pacing by Tony, he off handedly catches the shield that’s tossed to him by Sam, still talking. “I mean, it doesn’t seem _fair_. They’re trying to get home—“ he ducks a little as Tony gives the specialty purple bow he picks up off the couch a toss upwards and slightly right toward the ceiling. The hand coming out of the vents catches it before the whole combo vanishes.

“—and here we are dragging them into _our_ fight.”

Nat steps in their way, hand out to hit right over the arc reactor so Tony stops moving long enough to let the gauntlets fix and adjust; she has Wanda’s jacket in the other hand. One of his flying gauntlets has her second favorite .308; the two grin at each other while Steve pulls the cowl down and holds out Thor’s God Helmet thing. “—riding with us is going to take time away from trying to get them back, you know?” The God in question takes it, puts it on, and keeps pacing around looking for his other boot. With a sigh fond, Wanda takes her jacket from Nat and holds out her right Widow’s Bite.

“Well,” Tony draws out, now digging under one of the couch cushions, triumphantly pulling out said missing boot, “how about we actually _ask_ them, Cap? Sometimes a swift and angry fight is _therapeutic_ , gets the brain juices flowing and all that. Hell, if I was _them_ , **_I_** would want a rousing game of “beat that bad guy.” If nothing else, for shits and giggles.”

Clint drops out of the vent abruptly, takes the boot from Tony’s gesturing hand with a sigh and tosses it at Thor while Nat gives him a good smack to the back of the head, holding out his specialty archer’s glove in the other hand. Tony doesn’t even register, just goes back to the couch cushions and—nope, not—that last time he’d seen them, they were—ah, got—ooh, yup.

He yanks out the special made Bruce-to-Hulk-to-Bruce nudeless pants and Sam’s goggles—a two for one.

Bruce smiles that slightly embarrassed grin, taking the pants while Sam fiddles with the newer controls a minute before taking the goggles from Tony’s other hand. Thor, both boots, hefts Mjölnir as the Avengers come together, facing the group of Bats watching avidly from the kitchen. Robin is perched in a crouch on top the refrigerator, Nightwing with a falsely relaxed stance folded arm stance under a vent, the Red Hood with his ass up on the counter, fiddling with his auto, B covered by his cape in that scary stillness, and Red grinning like a madman at the _possibility_ of fighting with the Avengers (fanboy-gasm Right. Here. Folks).

“All right people,” with the mass of fighters in a semi-circle, facing the Gothamites, Captain America addresses everyone with solemn sincerity over the quieting alarms, “our world is facing another threat. The MOE is riding in on New York and they’re bringing Hell with them.  Our world, and our call to meet ‘em on the battlefield, so we’re keeping things simple enough.  Hulk and Thor on the Wrecking Crew, Scarlet Witch on Blackout, keep the Darkforce contained. If push comes to shove, you know what to do. Mr. Hyde is all Falcon. Winter Soldier and Hawkeye are taking mobile points, on any possible bots that might come our way, keep any of the smaller fries off our sixes. V, while Witch is on Blackout, you’re on Vengeance. Iron Man, air support. Keep me in the loop. Widow, I’ll need you on the move. If we’ve got Boomerang, you’re on him. As usual, you get your guy or gal, move on to the next. Crowd control, take care of the citizen, and keep damage to a minimum. As for me, I want Zemo.”

Silently, the Bats take in the orders, waiting, watching.

“As for our guests,” Steve crosses his arms over his broad chest, shield fixed to his back. “You’ve got no responsibilities here, friends. We’re not going to ask—“

“Red?” The Batman interrupts pointedly.

Tim, the Red Robin, steps up slightly, hands clasped behind his wings, “the Wrecking Crew has amassed God-like powers, Hood and Robin on them—Thor and Hulk have the strength, not the stealth. Blackout is capable of opening portals using Darkforce energy, N can keep him occupied for the Scarlet Witch to keep him detained. Mr. Hyde is like a schizophrenic Bane, you should be on point with Falcon—he can take air distractions and weapons while you him down up close and personal. Baron von Zemo exists via the internet, so I’m on tech support with the Captain.”

The Avengers share an exchange of looks as the Bats straighten from their positions while Red talks it out, giving them just enough deets for an idea what they’ll be facing. N gives his sticks an elaborate twirl before fitting them on his back. Hood holsters his pieces, cracking his neck. Robin is off the fridge, standing by his father’s side, straight-backed and proud. Red, with a sharp grin, fits the domino back on and the whiteouts shine ominous in the overhead light.

When B _moves_ away from the shadows, the Bats pace with him, spreading out behind him like a wave.

“Lucky for youuuu,” Hood sing-songs through the helmet, turned toward the Avengers, “we are _righteously_ bad _ass_ at night!”

“Get me a location, Red,” B says darkly as he strides toward the already opening window.

“If I may,” J.J. inserts, “current estimate, the Masters of Evil shall descend on Fifth Avenue in approximately seven minutes.”

“Plenty of time,” N draws out, pulling a grapple.

“Tt,” Robin sneers, “as long as you refrain from the inane _roof-top_ tag, N.”

“Aw, don’t be a _hater_ Baby Bat,” N returns, pointedly ruffling the kid’s hair. And, nope, Red is _not_ laughing at the glare. He likes his ankles, seriously, Brat, don’t gnaw them the fuck off, okay?

“Red, crack their comm systems, route us in.”

And, well, _maybe_ his inner fanboy is jumping up and down a little, Red finds himself already moving to do just that. “Got it, B.”

“Good work, we ready?”

The other Bats chorus behind him.

“Ah, so I guess—“ Tony has the Iron Man helmet in the crook of his elbow.

“We’ll meet you there,” B deadpans just before he dives out the window and into the night, his cape spreading like a warning. N waves cheerfully before following with an arc to his powerful body, arms out.

Hood points a finger at the Winter Soldier, “don’t keep me _waiting_ , asshole! We got some _bang, bang, shoot ‘em up_ to do!” Then he’s gone. The Asset’s eyes narrow, but the smallest motion of his mouth is a quirked grin.

Robin simply shakes his head and leaps. Red sucks in a breath because _really, these guys_ , looks back at the Avengers who are staring at them with slack jaws and wide eyes since, well, _eighty stories up and whatever_.

“We have a _jet_ , you know,” Tony can’t help pointing out.

Red shrugs, grapple in his hand, “nah. **_This_** is the only way to fly!” and he jumps while laughing like a fool.

**

Hulk like little red shirt boy. The boy tugs at his hand and points,

“There! Throw me there.”

So Hulk picks up little red shirt boy and throws.

Little red shirt boy throws down a weapon behind Hulk, go _boom_.

Hulk give him thumbs-up.

**

Simultaneous gunfire.

The Winter Soldier jerks, the enemy behind him down from the Red Hood’s shot while the other creeping up from over Hood’s back is down from the Soldier’s round. Both men are up fast, moving, changing position. For the Soldier, the sit back and sniper time is over—he jumps into the fray with the semi-auto strapped around his chest and twin .45s.

The Red Hood paces him, ducking and dodging debris, making each shot _count_.

**

Red’s jump kick doesn’t stop him from hacking into Zemo’s network, ducking and dodging various blasts while he leaps. However, he isn’t in time to miss the epic swipe from Mr. Hyde and gets swatted through the display window of some fancy clothing store. The _owfuck_ is shitty but the paralyzing pellets in the guy’s face make is all so worth it.

“Red.” N’s goddamned _sixth sense_ while, you know, _a little fucking busy here_ when he draws back the Batnet to let that shit _fly_.

Hyde goes down long enough for Red to enter the last hack encoding and _“Access Granted.”_

Score.

“Red?!”

Hyde rips the nets, is back up while Red moves, rebounds off a lamp post and comes back with both feet to the face.

“Damn it, N. Take.”

Elbow.

“A.”

Knee to the face.

“Pill!”

Swing around, catch the arm, and the two go down.

“Don’t start that ‘I am an island’ bullshit, Baby Bird, or so _fucking help me_ —“

“Baby Bird?” The Winter Soldier breaks in and it sounds completely deadpan, so dammit, he’s laughing on the inside.

He give a last blow to Hyde and picks himself up off the pavement, working at Zemo’s neural net.

“Just a nickname,” he snarls.

“It’s okay, _Baby Bird_ ,” Hawk croons, the soft _zahh_ as he fires, “I think it’s _precious_.”

“Get _fucked_ asshole,” Hood snarls back, the voice vibrating through the synths.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart, I _make sweet love_.”

“Not if I don’t shove your—“

“I like it.” Because _Widow_. The other two shut up and fast since, well, she’s scary as hell. “Suits you, Red.”

“Thanks,” he mutters and, _no,_ he totally isn’t blushing.

**

“Ah, _Captain_ ,” and Zemo’s distorted image grins madly from the robotic suit. In his arm, he’s crushing Iron Man’s chest after the special EMP hit the mark.

Cap throws his shield again, taking out Vengeance in mid-leap while he bolts for Tony, _Tony_ and calls, “Winter Solider!” through the comms.

“Give me the signal,” Bucky breathes over the line, “I’ve got him.”

Tony screams inside the suit and the groan of metal can be heard over the fighting, Steve _can hear Tony being crushed_.

“Iron Man needs a _time out_ ,” Zemo cackles gleefully.

What he doesn’t count on is Zemo’s suit freezing and _Honey Boo Boo_ blares over the speakers.

“ _Was ist das?!_ ”

“Cap,” Red comes over the comms next, “cut him off from the internet, and he’s going to enjoy some terrible reality TV. I’ve got _Duck Dynasty_ for him. _All_ of them.”

_Thank God_.

“Get to Iron Man, Cap,” the Winter Soldier demands (since they’ve been working, _trying_ to get Tony to accept them, to be _more_ than just where they are at now).

“On it!” He snags the shield out of the air, jumps, spins, and swings. In a precise move, the shield cuts right into the bionic suit’s neck, taking the head off.

The suit twitches hard and the arm releases, allowing Iron Man to slump to the pavement; running full tilt since Tony is defenseless, Cap is beaten there by Nightwing, who lands effortlessly in front of the suit, escrima sticks out to start fighting off the lesser robot minions Zemo brought along for the ride.

Cap takes a jump and lands right in the middle of the guy fighting like flowing water, just moving effortlessly. Cap is right there with him, the two coming back-to-back to defend the fallen Iron Man.

“Sitrep!” he yells over the comms, one eye on the unmoving suit, moving faster because he _has to get to the suit and pry Tony out of it_.

“I’ve got Zemo saved on an external drive,” Red draws out while in perpetual motion, “he’s pretty pissed about it.”

“Do they _really_ call these guys _The Wrecking Crew_?” Hood snickers over the line, “’cause I think, _Get Their Asses Wrecked_ _Crew_ is waaay more appropriate, right Baby Bird?”

Hawkeye is laughing like an asshole, “okay, _he’s_ in charge of bad guy naming _forever_ , right?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Hawk,” Falcon chimes in, “didn’t you start calling Taskmaster ‘Assmaster’ instead?”

Now Hood is the one laughing with the distorted synths, “holy shit, man. _Assmaster_.” A noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort.

“I’m with the Soldier, we’re keeping that guy!” Hawk calls, voice lost in the wind as he leaps out of his perch.

Cap and Nightwing take out the last fighters, Cap a little more on the vicious side of things.

“Keep it—“ B starts.

“—Professional, people.” Cap pauses only a second but he’s kneeling by Iron Man, pulling the faceplate off with a careful but hard grip.

“Widow here. Madame Masque and Boomerang are down and ready for pick-up. En route to you.”

“Thor, Hulk, and Robin,” the God booms, “the Wrecking Crew is down, Captain. How is our Iron Man?”

“Unconscious but breathing. I have to get him out of the suit. Who else?” N stays sharp, watching their backs while Cap grips the chest plate and starts pulling with his enormous strength, straining to free Tony.

“Mr. Hyde and Blackout,” B dark tone fills in the silence, “are down as well. Need pick-up for the Scarlet Witch.”

V is right on _that train_. “Vengeance is prepared for transport. I am on my way to her, Captain. Batman, how badly is she injured?”

That dark voice again, “she’s awake and talking.”

The Winter Solider is just suddenly _right there_ , kneeling by him, eyes for Tony’s face.

“Good call, V,” Cap grunts while straining. The metal and flesh hands come into play with his, Bucky adding to his strength. “Get her to the Tower.”

“Looks like things are good,” Falcon comes over, wind whistling in the background, “we’ve got some damage a few blocks North. I’ll stay and help the crews coordinate.”

The spark of N’s sticks while he takes down the last few bots hanging around. Out of the night, the Batman is suddenly at his back to hit the last few with a toss of EMP and shock pellets.

“Thanks, Falcon. We’ll need the Hulk with us to check the reactor.” He grunts with effort, “Hulk, you hear that? Tony’s hurt, we need Bruce.”

And even though Hulk’s huge fingers don’t work the comm that well, the huff over the line in unmistakable.

The two vigilantes kneel by the downed fighter and B pulls out the Batsaw from his belt. “Red,” B’s voice is dark, “what is the Iron Man suit made of?”

“Gold titanium alloy, the Bat-saw can handle it.” And Red’ voice is slightly slurred over the line. B turns to N with an obvious message, and Nightwing vanishes into the dark.

The saw activates and B carefully cuts through the top layer of protection while the two super soldiers keep pulling and rip the chest plate off. Luckily, the arc reactor is still glowing brightly regardless of the slightly crumpled edging.

“Avengers,” and it’s Phil Coulson’s smooth voice over comms, “SSARAS transport touching down now. We’ll start rounding up prisoners.”

“Glad you could make it to our party, boss man,” Hawk breathes, movement.

“Iron Man is down,” Cap interjects into the convo, ripping the crumpled shoulder portions off, eyes narrowed at the punctures in flesh. “Radio the Tower, have Medical waiting for us on the roof. We may need the spare Arc Reactor.”

“Copy,” and the slight hitch to Coulson’s words audible.

“Captain!” Thor is riding on the comment, “I can fly our brother with haste.”

And the Winter Soldier palms Tony’s cheek, eyes for the flecks of blood on his bottom lip and forehead. Tony’s eyes open while he’s cradled in the Winter Soldier’s palm.

“Good plan, Thor. Get here ASAP.”

“Understood.”

The Batsaw cuts off as the soldiers continue to search for injuries, fingers hovering over the arc reactor, and B’s eyes narrow behind the lenses at the crumpled metal still on Stark’s shoulders and arms, the dark haired man blinking up at them with a few second of confusion before his brain apparently kicks back on.

“B, Red took a few too many,” N’s voice next.

“My ass,” Red coughs hard over the comm.

“ _Baby Bird_ —“ Hood has that _you fucking asshole_ warning to it.

“All good, nothing to see here,” the younger Bat snarls back. “Zemo is chilling and I need to defrag him.”

B shuts that shit down in a heartbeat, “Hood. N. Get him back to the Tower. Now. Robin and I will stay for clean-up.”

“Understood,” both vigilantes echo while Red sputters something vaguely like _big vigilante now you asshats_.

“Did we put up streamers?” Tony asks vaguely, blinking woozily. “What’s a party without _those_?”

B looks up at the Captain and Winter Soldier grinning at him with bemused faces. Even with the full cowl, B gives a glance down at Tony Stark and the three just sigh with a shake of their heads.

**

Wresting Tim out of the Red Robin suit to bare his upper body is a whole lot of _holy shit, what happened to that kid?_ As far as the Avengers are concerned (the Bats have a noticeable reaction but otherwise don’t talk about it). Meanwhile, the medical staff armed with with crowbars and saws are shut down at whole new level of _nope, no you **don’t**_ , _we’ve got this_ when two of the Bats with their own tools start pulling pieces off the Iron Man suit while a doctor and nurse assess the current injuries.

Cap stays by Tony’s gurney, keeping one hand on the fella’s mid-back while the de-Hulked, only slightly woozy Bruce checks on the edges of the Arc Reactor and the doctors numb the areas of torn skin before stitches start. Robin and B pull the last pieces off Tony Stark’s legs and switch places with Black Widow and the Winter Soldier, who had been helpful in keeping Red pinned down long enough to have his concussion (who he named “Jerry” because, well, not _that bad_ really) and the glass shards that made it through his suit picked out.

Red already had the forceps in hand, taking out three palm sized pieces before Hood, Nat, and Jim made it to his side with _glares of doom_ , the other doctor and nurse in tow.

Both injured heroes protested the treatment, looked around members of their teams to give each other pitying _I so know **that** feel_ looks.

“Mr. Drake,” the doctor starts hesitantly after all the Bats convened around their hurt fifth, “your back—“ a gloved finger touches a sharp scar gently and Red is _off_ the gurney in a heartbeat, lunging over the doctor’s head to end up crouched on top the small sink in the medical room before N can catch his arm for some _slow down, wait a second_.

With the lenses down, no one knows how wide his eyes are. “Old injuries,” short and sweet while blood makes it way down his abdomen from only half done stitches.

“We’ll take it from here,” the Batman turns, a bunch of _scary guy right there_ to make the doctor hold both palms up to show he isn’t a danger, honest.

“I’m very sorry,” he starts calmly, talking directly to the spooked, tense vigilante. “I shouldn’t have touched you without asking. However, the scar on your front suggests you’ve had surgery of some kind. I was only wondering if there may something else to take into account when I assign you pain killers and antibiotics.” The doctor ignores the other Bats radiating _we will beat you down_ vibe (since he deals with the Avengers, kind of used to it by now) and shuffles slightly to the side of the gurney, waiting. “Please accept my apology.”

After a tense moment of Tony muttering something while the stitches are complete and someone starts gathering up pieces of Iron Man to go back to the workshop, Red finally steps gracefully down (hiding the slight wobble) and goes back to the gurney.

“Thank-you,” the doctor is sincere. “We’ve got all the glass out, and the concussion is clean. I’m going to finish the last stitches.”

Red leans back enough for the doctor to kneel and take up the needle again.

“I don’t have a spleen,” Red fills in while the doctor does his thing and the Bats close ranks, B’s hand on his shoulder, Robin’s dangling hand grabbing on to his calf, N’s palm warm at his mid-back through the gauntlet, Hood’s arm encased in the leather coat brushing his side.

Without looking away from the stitches, the doc nods thoughtfully. “Have your immunities been low in the last four to seven days?”

“No.”

N turns slightly to the younger Bat because the people that _knew_ him, knew that was just slightly too fast; B’s mouth quirks slightly.

“Then I’ll get you a slightly higher dose antibiotic than I would normally give, just to make sure infection doesn’t set it. Would you let me put you on an IV?”

“ ** _No_** —“

“Give us the supplies,” B interrupts.

“Done.”

Red sighs with a sneer while Tony makes the same motion. Cap’s hand is gentle but firm, pushing him down so Bruce can check the damaged outer ring of the arc reactor. His whole body tenses, lying down, vulnerable, with his shirt off and scars out in the air. Nat’s hand on his ankle and Clint’s clenched fist nudged against his outer thigh ground him, keep him _away_ from the Cave.

Jim’s upside down face fills his vision abruptly, hair hanging down around his face.

“Stay with us, Tones,” the low Brooklyn twist is all _Jim_ instead of _Soldier_. “Lookit me, fella. Right here.”

Tony’s dark eyes blink up at him, his chest rising with a breath through his nose, but all he can see is the bright gray of Jim’s eyes above him, Steve’s bare hand around his wrist. “I’m good,” the mechanic replies flatly while Bruce, held up half by Nat, half by Thor, starts.

The scientists talks gently, “okay Tony, here we go. Stay calm.”

_Click, pahh_. Soft noises of the seal releasing. The arc moves and Tony’s chest stutters _“it’s so beautiful, Tony_. _”_

Breath by his ear, “just Bruce, Tony. It’s just Bruce changing the reactor, okay?”

Steve’s voice and Jim’s eyes keep him in the now.

“Yup,” but his voice is too husky, too hoarse, eyes moving over Jim’s face. “Got it. Brucie-Bear, how bad is the damage?”

“Some of the titanium cracked, so did the faceplate,” and it _is_ Bruce’s voice, soothing over the raw, jagged edges of his nerves. “Thor got your spare, okay? I’m going to start changing it out now. Breathe for me, Tony.”

“I am breathing!” He protests slightly and Steve’s hand on his wrist squeezes, Jim grins a little and winks down at him. Clint’s hand moves closer to his thigh while Nat’s nails rake slightly over his ankle bone. “What about Wanda? She okay?” _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it_. The wires move, reconnect.

“Professor Xavier said she might be hitting a plateau of her power,” Sam fills in, standing out of the way of the procedure. “Could have been an overload to her system.”

“She good?”

“V is monitoring her now,” Nat replies while Bruce fiddles more, his Hulk pants slightly sagging and hands trembling minutely with strain and concentration. He finally slides the new reactor home, breathes, and promptly passes out cold. Sam, because he expected it, has his armful of the guy while Thor moves to get a good grip and tosses Banner over a meaty shoulder.

The doc steps into the hole by Tony and starts with antibiotic ointment and taping gauze pads to the punctures from the armor. Steve’s fingers gently massage his wrist now, right over the pulse and Jim lowers his head enough to talk softly in Russian.

“All right,” both doctors pronounce of their individual patients. Red has gauze pads under bandages wound around his abdomen and the chunk taken out of his temple taped up. The doctor hands him a soft looking SSARAS t-shirt while Robin and Hood gather up his wing, pack, harness, and outer body armor. The utility belt around his waist _stays._ While he hops off the gurney, Tony sits up blinking and holds out a hand for the second t-shirt. Jim snatches it up and starts wrestling him into it.

Both teams don’t hesitate a moment in corralling the injured members up into the elevator and to the communal floor while Thor and Nat rode up to Bruce’s floor to lay the exhausted scientist out in his own room.

Red would have to be awakened every hour (as if he slept anyway) and monitored for infections. Tony would have to be monitored for any arrhythmia with the new arc reactor (as it hasn’t _exactly_ been tested as of yet, and _no, **Clint** , _don’t look at me like that). The two are immediately ushered to the soft, over-stuffed couches with a stern looking Cap, Winter Soldier, N, and Hood to make sure they damn well _stayed_ there.

Sam, however, started in on ordering food for the massive group from one of their favorite, 24-hour places (since, well, it’s really a pattern when fighting major villains at all times of day or night—know where the best food comes from) and rattles off the team’s favorites by rote, pointing to each Bat in turn to tell the AI their favorite burger and sundries. Clint eventually comes back with an arm load of clothing for the Bats, lays everything out on the island (and hey, even found something to fit the kid, seriously, Stark, you think of everything) for the vigilantes to choose from.

“Showers are down that hall,” the Hawk tells them. “The rest of us are going up to our floors in shifts and shower, so this one is all yours.”

With the cowl off, B nods his thanks.

Looking up at the ceiling (which, they all do no matter what the hell Tony says), “J.J., where are these guys at for the night?”

“Sir has arranged Floor 77, 78, and 79 for our visitors as Mr. Drake has already settled in Floor 76.”

“Gotcha, thanks pal.” Hawk just gives the Bats a _voila_ motion and a wave to let them get their clothes.

“I’ll stay with Timmers,” Hood deactivates the helmet and sets it aside to crack his neck. “The rest of you get cleaned up and meet back here.”

N pulls the domino off, “I’m with you. We’ll go in pairs.”

Dami sighs, “very well. Father, come. We won’t be long.”

“No worries Demon, we got ‘im.” The older Bats wave them off and wander back to the couch where Tim and Tony are arguing the _hell_ out of quantum physics and completely fucking _ignoring_ their team’s individual _mother-hen_ routine (since, please, we’ve both had a helluva lot _worse_ , no missing body parts, no Extremis-fuckery. Shit, there weren’t even _aliens_ this time).

On Tony’s other side, Captain America and the Winter Soldier are looking at the mechanic fondly while expertly dodging his mad flailing; Dick and Jay likewise smile gently at their Baby Bird until the two come to a draw.

“All right, all right,” Tony finally waves Tim’s last argument away, “you have a concussion and my chest hurts. Enough for now.”

“I have _Jerry_ ,” Tim corrects, “and he is a _terrible_ companion for the night.”

Tony just shakes his head a little, “okay, Jerry the concussion, thanks for coming to hang out. We’ll play backgammon later and maybe Go Fish. Anyway—now that the city is saved, _again_ , what’s the plan from here?”

Tim chews on his bottom lip a little, “we should have the multi-dimensional code cracked in another 48 hours tops. Jay already started on the portal build while J.J. has the circuit boards in fabrication. As much as it sucks, we have to wait for Bruce to come out of his Hulk coma and the pieces to come together.”

Tony nods, “in the meantime, we can work on what villains in your world _and_ ours have the capabilities to do this and how they communicate. That’s going to be next on the big list of things to do. We’ll put a gold star by it so everyone knows how important it is.”

Tim laughs a little punch drunk. “Man, I am _so_ going to hate going home.”

**

By the time everyone showered and came back to the Communal Floor, night security had brought up their massive take-out order. Tony, Tim, Thor, and Dami spread the food out and both teams sat down to eat.

Even with the crazy amount of exhausted and post-battle adrenaline waning, talk is animated with the re-telling of the fighting. Jay stands up at his place, both hands together in a parody of a flying bot’s imminent demise from Sam’s rockets; Clint does his best Tarzan impression of N swinging down on Mr. Hyde’s shoulders, using momentum to throw the guy half a block away. Nat’s cool voice giving Robin props for his fast and furious blows on the robot soldiers. Tony listening avidly to Tim’s explanation of trapping Zemo in _Duck Dynasty_ hell while he waves the external drive around. Bruce in his bathrobe laughing at N’s duck and dodge around the Hulk’s heavy-handed blows. Cap marveling at B almost _appearing_ at each villain to deliver a volley of blows and weapons when the other fighters were thrown or down for a count. Sam laughing his ass off when Hawk had to dive from his perch only to be gripped at the ankle by a swinging Robin because “honestly, the man has no sense of self-preservation.”

When the food is gone and enough clean-up done for the night, everyone decides to part ways.

Jay and Dick take Tim by either bicep, taking _no shit_ on who’s going to be waking him up every hour; likewise, Jim and Steve veto Tony’s trip down to the workshop where he can work on more—hey, you two can _let go_ now; really, this isn’t necessary.

But Tony finds himself muscled off the elevator onto Steve and Jim’s floor with a super soldier at each arm “helping” get him into their living room with waves and calls of good-nights from the Avengers and the Bats as the doors slide closed.

“Hey,” Tony pulls out of their hands, both his own up, “it’s okay. I’m _fine_ to go down to work in the lab since we have _interdimensional visitors_ and whatnot—“

He shuts the hell up the second those two surround him, Steve pressing up against his back and Jim’s chest up against his own—but _this_ (“we _did_ this, remember? Trying to _do the right thing here_.”) isn’t where they’re supposed to be. He already went through the rigmarole with these two on what wasn’t going to happen—!

“Tony,” Steve’s voice is deep against his ear while the mechanic can only stare up into Jim’s gray eyes a little helplessly (an _oh God, he **wants** so much…so much…_ ). Steve’s hands are palming his hips, fingertips rubbing small circles in the indentations while Jim’s hands come up to frame his face.

“We talked about this,” is the only thing he can say, his extraordinary mind shutting down for a crucial time while the warmth of them through the t-shirts and sweats warms a completely different part of him.

“ _You_ talked about it,” Jim counters, eyes moving over his features, “not much talking on our side, doll face.”

Steve takes the smallest of steps, putting him right into the curve back and ass while Tony forces himself to just _breathe_.

“You scared us out there,” and the mouth against his ear moves to the nape of his neck, lips barely touching, just enough…just enough to make his iron resolve start to crumble around the edges.

“We don’t do _scared_ , do we babe?” And Jim is holding his gaze while he leans down slowly, for a feather light press of their mouths together (and the last time in Scotland, the tangle of limbs, the slide of skin on skin, the wet and warm and _heat_ , the taste and smell of them on him, the texture of skin and scars and perfection under his hands…).

More pressure at his neck moving slowly around to his jugular, “nope. No, Buck, we sure _don’t_.”

“Whassat make us do, Stevie?” The kiss is real, opening his mouth for _Jim and he’s still tastes so good, so much…he **wants, needs**_.

“Gotta make sure you’re okay, Tony, gotta see _all_ of you,” like it should be an obvious answer along with the sucking, licking, biting, friction on his neck, those big hands moving under his shirt, up his sides, and he shudders with it, so _done_ fighting this incredible attraction, these two _stupid_ soldiers that don’t understand how perfect they are together and adding Tony Stark would only measure up to failure.

Jim pulls back, uses the metal hand to push his head back enough that Steve can have his turn at Tony’s mouth, and this one winds him up even tighter than before…

Cloth tearing and his upper body is bare while Steve fills up his mouth with tongue and taste and everything he _needs_. Tony doesn’t even realize his hands have moved of their own volition, one cupping Steve’s neck, the other holding onto Jim’s because…well, he’s not _made of fucking stone._

“You better say ‘no’ right now,” Jim breathes against his collar bone, “or else we’re gonna take you to bed, Моя Любовь. You hear me?”

Starting to pant against Steve’s mouth, Tony groans because _dammit_ , he doesn’t want them hurt. He **never wants them to hurt because of _this_**.

“Tony, Buck’s talking at ‘chu,” Steve whispers against his mouth and Cap is _pulling out the accent too?!_

“Not fighting fair here, you know,” and he’s already relaxing against them, eyes half-mast to look into Steve’s baby blues. “Of course I still want this, want the both of you, but it’s not _feasible_ —“

“Don’t wanna hear any o’ your nonsense, Stark,” Jim bites out, dropping to his knees and nipping at Tony’s hip bone. “We’re both goddamned adults here, and you need to stop thinking whatever bullshit is keeping you away from us.”

His breath catches as Steve arches a pointed eye brow.

“Ditto,” the Captain just replies. “We get what you’re trying to do. ‘Preciate it, really, but _Tony_. For God’s sake, _stop with this_.”

And, he totally gets points for making Captain America take the Lord’s name in vain. Clint is going to hear about it. Seriously.

The mouth at his hips find _that spot_ and **_sucks_**. His whole body seems to relax when noises start coming out of his throat and just…too much…not _enough_ …can he really do this without anyone getting _hurt_?!

Steve’s mouth is soft and warm this time, gentle in that crazy kind of way that makes him want to grab on, to _hold on_ to something, anything. And he’s looking into the dark blue of those eyes, staring into his friend, his former lover, one of the men he wants to protect _so fiercely_ he _aches_ , and just…Steve…Jim…

“…okay,” already hating himself, already _fearing_ what might come afterward, further down the line, he’s so tired of fighting himself, of fighting _them_. “Okay.”

“Spell it out for us,” Jim demands in between pressing open mouthed kisses against the lower part of his abdomen, causing the smaller man to gasp.

Steve is biting at his neck, sucking again, humming with the same demand.

“T-Take me to bed,” he bites out. “God, let me _touch_ you, both of you. _Now_.”

Jim chuffs a laugh against muscles, “uh-hu, yer the injured one. _We’re_ gonna take care of _you_.”

And with a breath, Tony leans back against Steve’s vibrating chest with a laugh.

**

The floor they’re visiting is _nice_ _digs_. Jason takes a few minutes to check (strafe) the floor, go back into the bedrooms and bathrooms, make sure no one and nothing is hiding away in the wings. Dick ushers a protesting Tim to the couch on this floor’s living room and searches out a blanket for his concussed little brother. When Jay comes back out of the hallway, he goes to the kitchen set-up and searches out the coffee pot, ducking in and out of cupboards (amazed as _hell_ at everything they have stocked because _holy shit, there’s everything **ever** here. Like the safe houses only in a Tower_ ).

By the time coffee is perking, Dickie has turned into that _damned_ octopus and has Baby Bird in a tight grip, surfing through the bazillion channels on the monster of a screen with the other hand.

Jay just plops his ass on Tim’s other side, tilts his chin up so he can eyeball the tape close to his hairline.

“It’s fine,” Tim’s eyes slide toward him, “I get worse beating up _the Riddler_ , and he’s a pansy.”

Jay huffs out a laugh, his hand sliding around to hold the back of Tim’s neck. “Don’t give a shit, Timmers. This ain’t our usual world, so we got to watch our own asses here.”

“The Avengers have been really cool since I got here,” the younger Bat counters while Dick hikes an eyebrow. “They have no reason to trust me, and yet, here we are.”

Jay hums a little but refuses to look away from the injury.  The heat of his gaze makes Dick pause, his gaze swing over, and a brow arches almost into his hairline. Silent communication commences in Bat-a-nese, beginning with that lifted eyebrow and continuing in barely-there facial movements, a whole conversation ending with both older men ginning just a shade to widely.

“Whatever it is,” Tim draws, not bothering to give either a glance, “the answer is _no_.”

“You don’t even know what we’re gonna ask for, Timmy,” Jay draws out, his hand tightening just enough for _lookit me, gimmie your attention_.

Tim sighs, “ **you** are like a cat without a ball of string. Seriously, Jay,” and he does look over to see the intensity of those blue, _blue_ eyes, and whatever he might have said falls to the wayside.

Instead, “is this about something you found on the ghost drive?” Suddenly, Baby Bird is intense, shut-down with a whole different kind of mask. “Look, I’m going to say this once. _Once_. That drive only partially unlocked for Dami so he could access the cases I was working on _in case I was compromised_. That’s it. I’m not fucking suicidal, I _plan_ for the _worst case scenario_ —“

Dick’s hand on his wrist is sudden, jarring when he just started on a roll. He turns from Jay’s narrowed eyes to Dick’s wide ones.

“This talk is going to come eventually, Tim. Believe it. But that’s not what this is about. At all.” He glances up at Jay.

_Oh_. “I see. Look—if you two were _trying_ to keep your relationship on the down-low for the time being, I understand that,” he waves a hand for emphasis. “I have and _won’t_ tell anyone until you feel more comfortable. It’s _fine_ , but I’m going to say this—“ and his eyes darken, suddenly so very serious, so _Red_ even with the concussion. “I meant it. Don’t hurt each other.”

The threat, the ‘master assassin’ is there in Tim Drake, something under the surface of skin, but Dick and Jay just sigh a little with fond exasperation.

“That ain’t it either,” Jay reaches out slowly, his fingertips taking just a little of that too long hair. “But…it’s going to have to wait for a while anyway, Tim. You’re not there, not yet. We still got our work cut out for us.”

Now his brows are furrowing. “Wait. What?”

“The Black Widow and Hawkeye let it slip,” Dick fills in with that fake mild tone, only when he’s trying not to get _upset_ about something. “You didn’t think we’d come for you.”

“Actually, I said it might take a few week for _anyone_ to know I was gone. Like, I fight international crime. A lot.”

“Bullshit. That ain’t what you meant and you fucking damn well know it.”

He stands quick, facing the two older Bats (his heroes from waaaay back, the first two loves of his life…his Robins) with both hands palm out. “Look, like I’ve been _saying_ all this time, I’m a—“

“Big vigilante,” Dick’s sneering now, “we get it, Tim. But, dammit, you just getting _lost_ out there Isn’t. Happening. Anymore. Period.”

And he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “I know, Dick. I _know_. You guys have…had my back. Really. I— It’s not where I saw myself with the Bats even a year ago, so, yes, I _know_ you’re trying. I—“

Jay puts a hand up, “we get it, we do, Baby Bird. It’s hard to put faith in us. It’s okay, but that’s the _point_ here. We aren’t going to push you into anything until you’re _good_ with the Bats again.”

Now _that_ is _what exactly?_

“Jay—“

And those eyes (the ones that are sometimes green when the Pit influence is on) are so intense, so _deep_ and _full_ of something.

Jay is just standing and up in his space, head tilted down to look at him with that strangely intense expression—not the one reserved for _bang, bang, pow_. Those hands are warm against the side of his face, holding him still for Jay, Jason Fucking Todd, to lower his head and press their mouths together. He gives Tim no time to get away, no time to even _think_ about anything other than ‘ _his lips are so soft, never would have guessed_ ‘ right along with ‘ _I’m dreaming, I’m in fantasy land, this is some kind of mind fucking aliens that read all my fantasies to trap me some fucking—_

And his mouth opens in a groan because his injury still hurts and Jay’s tongue is pushing between his lips, and _oh God_ , he tastes like something dark and addictive, something heady. Hint of cigarette and gum he chews while he’s in the helmet, and _fuck_ , his hands are gripping Jay’s wrists so tight his knuckles are probably white. He can’t _stop_ himself from pushing back, from—

Jay pulls back fast, doesn’t let go, but he’s breathing faster and those eyes are dilated. While he stares down, his tongue comes out, licks his lips like he’s savoring the taste.

“Timmy,” from low in Jay’s chest, the dark tone rumbles up and over Tim’s skin, making his shudder slightly.

“A little too soon Jay,” Dick presses up, and _when the fuck did he get up?_ But the feel of Dick Grayson right up against his back, effectively trapping him between the two of them, and his eyes blow wide.

But he forces himself to relax, to _think_ because this can’t be what he thinks it is. No. Way. If the Bats want him “back” badly enough to pull something like _this_ , then he’s going to fucking—

“What is this?” He asks instead of going right the _fuck off_. Actually, he sounds pretty goddamned calm even with the concussion and gnarly tears in his abdomen (still on the mind controlling aliens theory for just in case).

Dick’s hands on his hips makes him straighten, immediately suspicious.

“We shouldn’t have—“ Dick sighs behind him, the breath ghosting over his ear, “Timmy. We wanted to _wait_ until you were okay with everything, with _us_ before we brought this up.”

“You two are _together,_ ” he fairly snarls, looking at Dick over his shoulder. “What the _hell_ —“

But Dick takes a page right out of Jay’s book, moving just enough so he could palm Tim’s face and press their lips together, too, angling his head down enough to make it just _right_ , to slide his tongue over the seam of Tim’s mouth.

The youngest pulls back hard, away from the two of them, stumbling back a step because _holy shit, right out of his fantasy and what. The. Great. Fuck. Is. Happening?_

“I hit my head harder than I thought,” he manages to gasp out, putting room between him and the two of them. “Holy shit, I’m in some kind of mind trap and this—“ _can’t be real_.

“Whoa, whoa,” Jay snags one of his wrist, their arms extended to keep the distance. “Stop. Baby Bird, Timbo, **stop** that shit right now, you feel me?”

Tim blinks at him because seriously, that sounds _so_ Jason.

“If it’s not there for you, then we read this all wrong, and fuck all if we’re assholes. We’ll say a big _sorry about that shit_ and be done with it.”

His brain stutters over, “…there for me?”

Jay and Dick exchange a pointed glance and back to him. “That you would be open to…being with _us_.” Dick’s hand waffles between him and Jay, “as in part of our relationship.”

Tim’s eyes go _wide_.

“It’s been there for us for a while, Baby Bird,” Jay’s hand tightens minutely around his wrist. “Longer for Dickie.

And his immediate reaction isn't…positive. He tugs his wrist away, too many things trying to work in his brain on what this is supposed to mean, the _whys_ and _hows_ and _what they get out of this_.

Jay holds up a hand, palm out. "Just wait a second, before you even start with that shit." Now he's ticking off fingers, "no. This ain't the reason why we were trying to get you back. Not for this. Everything we said in the beginning? None of that was to fuck with you."

Dick takes right up with it. "And if you say no right now, we're still going to be here for you. We won't stop being your brothers. You're not going to get rid of us because of this. Whatever way it goes."

"No, this ain't a Robin thing either," Jay interjects, "I mean, this is a _Timmy_ thing. You know, it’s because you're Tim. That's who we want. We talked it out ‘til we agreed on _you_ , you get me?"

"It's also not just a sex thing," Dick crosses his arms over his chest, "we're not interested in just that."

"We wanna send you to work with coffee and breakfast or with concealer to cover up the marks," Jay smirks. "We wanna call you at the Tower and ask how the fight went and get the truth ‘cause, yes, asshole, _we give a shit_."

"We want you to feel like it's okay to call us and do the same thing," and Dick is smiling gently at him like he's thinking about that happening.

"We wanna ask about your scars, an' have the right to touch 'em, show you how we see you."

"When any of us are in town, we can be together. If it's you and me, me and Jay, you and Jay, or all of us. We want you to be part of our _relationship_ , Tim. Not a one-time thing, okay?"

"And not because we think just _you_ need it, but because we…we need it too. We want you. Want you with us, you feel me on that?"

And it feels like he's watching tennis with all the back and forth. The two older Bats side-by-side like they're meant to be and his brain starts ( _don't do this, don't shake them up, asshole, they've got a good thing going_ ) and he has this horrible feeling in his chest, just terrible because damn he can take damage and keep walking, keep moving, glue his pieces back together and still stand...but damn if this might really be the thing he can't come back from, no matter how much he wants it, aches for it now that he knows.

And apparently his expression is not in the usual neutral lines because the two share an eye slide.

"Timmy," Jay's voice is a little deeper. "It's okay, right? We kinda thought, uh-" and Jay just trails off a little.

"We weren’t going to bring it up until you were in a good place with us now to let you know how we feel." Dick inserts. "Not that we're trying to pressure you, Tim. We can still be your brothers if that's what you need-"

"-what you want, Baby Bird. If you don't want any part of _this_ here mess," Jay does a little hand dance between him and Dick, "we get that. Sometimes it's hard for us too, y'know? But…if it's there for you. It's there for us, too."

And _fuck, how is he going to even_ —? At this moment, he wishes like hell he had the whiteouts.

"I'm—" _breathe_. Both men are watching him intently with those eyes. "I haven't done a relationship in years, and I don't fuck other vigilantes as a matter of personal preference." Personal code, too many hang-ups. Too much other shit that goes bad. Because seriously, he's learned from his past mistakes. It's too much to be invested in someone that could die in the line of duty just as fast as he could. "It's not…safe." _But there's more than that, isn't there?_

"If this is a sex thing," _it might break me, it might kill me_ , "I could do it. I could do it for you two. It's… it's always has been the two of you, right from the beginning. That…That didn't change. But something more would have negative consequences for you both and I can't do that. Not to you. Either of you." Tim just looks from Jay's unhappy expression to Dick's, but dammit, they'll have to be mad. This is…the right thing. They had understand that.

And what comes out of Jay's mouth with those eyes narrowed on him, "then who do you _fuck_ , Tim? People that don't give a shit about you? Don't ask about your scars?"

And faced with that expression, he bites the bullet and tells _the fucking truth_ , "yes. That's who I fuck when I need something more than my hand. People that know a pseud and never see me in the light. People that can't know me. It's—" _safe, not painful, not dangerous_ , "-not ideal, but better than where I was a few years ago."

He shrugs one shoulder, trying to be callous, analytical. This is about a biological need, not about love and acceptance. That shit was a pipe dream, and yeah, it took some hard hits for him to get that.

"You deserve better," Dick admonishes gently, and he also looks upset about this little revelation, but, well, they missed a whole bunch of shit that went down, didn't they? The volume of back story isn't there for them.

The bitter, very unfunny laugh takes him by as much surprise as it does them.

He waves a hand at them, "not going there. Those aren't details either of you _need_." _Or are ever going to get_.

Dick holds up both hands, palm out, “fine. But, were we _wrong_ , Tim? Tell us that. Tell us we were seeing something that isn’t there and we’ll apologize.”

And he opens his mouth (guy that lies to _Batman,_ remember?) to do just that, but— “I can’t trust you. Fuck no. The first time was _enough_.”

_Shit, **shit** , holy shit, **what?**_ That was not what he meant to say, fuck. What in the hell did that _asshat_ doctor inject him with?!

Dick and Jay have a whole lot of _ah-ha_ when Tim takes an immediate step back. “I’m setting my alarm. I’ll get up on my own. Night.” Strategic retreat FTW.

“Wait a goddamned—“

“Tim. _Tim,_ we need to _talk_ about this—“

“Oh hell no,” he points an angry finger at them. “You want to break something like _this_ out on me _now?_ A few _years ago_ when I was still a _fucking Bat_ would have been just _stellar_. You have _no idea_ what I would have done—!” He takes a deep breath.

Woo-sa.

Wooooo-saaaaa.

Fuck, not working.

“Nope, I’m not having this conversation with a concussion in another dimension. Just, no fucking way. Good _night_.” And his heart is hammering in his chest, pulse beating hard in the back of his mouth where the leftover taste of cigarettes and coffee linger when he makes his way down the hall, shoves himself in the first guest room.

“Mister Drake,” J.J. soothes as soon as the damn door is closed and his back against it.

“Yeah?” He chokes.

“I am able to initiate protocol to wake you every hour for your injury as well as to make certain this room is in lockdown.”

A stupid, hysterical laugh bubbles up from the center of his chest, the edge of tears enough to make his eyes _hot_. “T-That would be _fantastic_ , J.J. Thank-you.”

“My pleasure, Mister Drake. Protocol initiated. However, I must inform you—“

“Go ahead,” because, well, the strength in his legs is giving out, leaving him to slide down the door, to sit his ass on the carpet and shake a little with so many _could have, should have_ and so much old _wants_ and _needs_.

“All preliminary scans indicate Richard Grayson and Jason Todd were under no altering substances. Vital check indicates no changes in respiration or heart rate.”

He blinks and furiously scrubs at his face, “you mean to tell me you did the lie detector thing, J.J.?”

“Of course, Mister Drake. As all scans may signify, no fabrication or alteration of fact has occurred in the commons area.”

His eyes blow _wide_ with the implications, and Tim suddenly just needs _to breathe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I hope that opening bit where the Avengers have their shit all over the damn place and just throwing things to one another tickled the hell out of you because I can TOTALLY SEE THIS HAPPENING, OMG. Tony and Steve pulling out random and sundries, throwing Bucky his rifle, Clint his bow, Thor his everything (seriously Thor, where is your other boot?), and just hilarity. I was seriously thinking like, the parents of the team and laughing my ass off thinking of how this scene would play out.  
> Graywhims, babe, I'm sorry I didn't get to Spideypool. I swear I was trying but GAHH, ANGST and Tony/Steve/Bucky. I love you. Seriously.


	13. Need continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And he expects to bleed for his transgressions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By request from a few commenters and based on Titans_R_Us “What, Baby Bird? Thought you liked contingencies.”  
> And because I am seriously going to hell, have I mentioned that?

During the last look back at the beautiful naked man sleeping in his bed, his choices had been made literally for the best possible outcome of the whole scenario. He had the _best of intentions_.

But the road to hell and all that.

His body arches, a clean line of straining muscle and _need_. His mouth falls open and those soft noises echo in the guest room of the Dick's apartment around the wet sounds of bodies straining, meeting, dancing in an age old language of desire.

Above him, Jason’s eyes are blue fire through the dim while he moves in a rolling, easy rhythm, and in the last rays of moonlight coming through the window, the sweat glistens off his chest and the flexing muscles of his abdomen. A deep, vibrating growl of pleasure purrs out from the depths of him, makes Tim tighten _more_ when the sound reaches down in him, wrapping around his old, almost-forgotten wants and desires.

This, _this_ , is not what he imagined the second he stepped out of Dick’s bedroom and eased the door closed to find the Red Hood with only the domino standing right across from him—fresh from patrol, and every tense line of his body screaming that something was about to commence. And Tim, Tim expected something like this, falling back on old instincts to hold one hand up ( _unarmed_ ) while easing down to lay his backpack by his feet. He expected the pain, expected retaliation and anger. He didn’t expect the dangerous vigilante to stalk the few feet between them, grip him by an arm and the jaw, and press him against the wall. He’s ready to _bleed_ for his transgressions.

“Jason, I’m—“ _sorry_ is lost when the older man takes his mouth, pressing chest to chest, hip to hip.

And _God_ , the hint of cigarettes and underlying sweetness that _is_ Jason Todd makes him groan without realizing it.

“Jason, wh--?” When the older man pulls back just enough that he can feel the panting breath against his lips.

“Baby Bird,” and the depths of that tone make a shudder run up his spine because there’s _no pain_ associated with the kind of darkness. And he’s overwhelmed with taste again and Jason’s grip on his jaw, turning him into the hot meeting of mouths and _wet_ and more than he’d really _hoped_ for but kept in his secret mental file of fantasy—

Lifted up against the hard muscle of Jason’s body, he’s being carried further down the hallway, his hands gripping the smooth leather jacket while Jason gives him no room to _escape_ the reactions, the want, the _need_.

Only when he’s abruptly dropped on the guest bed can he see the breathtaking _heat_ in Jason’s blue eyes, all the more emphasized by the domino he’s still wearing.

The coat hits the floor, the gloves and gauntlets so bare hands can slide under his shirt, pull it up for that mouth to trace his skin and scars, for Jason, _Jason_ , to touch him, to _taste_ …

His brain numbs with this conclusion, but his body _knows_ what it wants, and he arches helplessly under the onslaught. Jason’s shoulders are suddenly bare under his seeking hands, the body suit already to his waist and getting lower when teeth nip at his sides, breath ghosts over his ribs and _up_.

“I—Jason, _Jay_ , I—“

A slight pause over his body but the rasp of material sliding down over skin. “Fuck, Tim. Don’t you think I _need_ this, too?”

His eyes open at that admission, gaze going down to Jason looking back up at him, and those _eyes_.

Slowly, like he’s trying not to scare the younger man away, Jason crawls up between his legs to put them face to face, hovering.

“Tell me _no_ and I’ll let you go,” but everything in the way he holds his body tells Tim how difficult it would be, “tell me you don’t think I want Tim Drake, and this stops.” And the slow ease, _pressure_ of Jason’s lower body against his. Through his jeans, through Jason’s boxers, he can feel so _hard_ , so _ready_ and his mouth goes dry because _God, so is he…_

“Jay,” he manages in a deep voice, utterly _wrecked_ by this crazy realization.

“Not Red, not the _other_ Robin, none of that,” and those eyes go half-lidded when a roll of his hips rubs them together, makes Tim arch again. “Just _you_ , Timmy. I just need _you_.” And Jason lowers his head so his mouth skims over the pulse hammering in his throat, so the edge of teeth, the slickness of tongue can make those noises rise.

“If it’s just Dick, then I get that,” the dark voice, pitched low in his ear while a fingers splay over his chest and go _lower_. “If it’s just Big Wing for you, tell me, Timmy, and I’ll stop this, right now.” But that hand is over his very _obvious_ erection pressing again the zipper of his jeans, cupping him, stroking him, making him work his hips for _more._

Helpless against this, helpless against his own needs, Tim turns his head to meet Jason’s eyes, his throat working to swallow at the depths in that gaze, in the heat looking back at him.

“You’re my Robin…Jay, _you’re_ my Robin,” is all he can get out while his hands tighten on those broad shoulders and his body comes alive all over again.

The slow, sly smile that comes over Jason’s face makes him even harder.

“Then I guess I need to play the hero and _save_ you, Baby Bird.” And the deep darkness of his voice goes right to the core of Tim Drake, who could never have hoped this, _this,_ would be a reality. Not after all he and Jason Todd have been through, not after the blood spilt and curses hurled, not after he _took_ what was never _his_ to take—

The kiss is hard, a fight between them, while Jason skillfully gets the rest of his suit and boots off without breaking away so all that expanse of skin is right there under Tim’s hands for exploration, to _have_.

Rearing up to his knees, Jason’s eyes are wild when he grips the sides of his t-shirt and _pulls_ , ripping, baring him, showing the man under the suit, the clothes, the personas, and before he can protest, to divert, Jason is winding an arm under him, lifting his upper body so the soft spots at his throat, the grooves of his collar bone can be tasted, tested, _marked_.

And for a body so accustomed to _pain_ , he _drowns_ in the sensations, in lips and hands, in skin and scars, in soft, vulnerable spots that cause the perfect reactions.

He swallows Jason’s noises when he’s on top, when it’s his turn to learn the dips and hollows, the grooves, and textures, to test the places with his hands and lips, teeth and tongue.

He moans when Jay’s hands clench this side of _too hard_ , hoping for more bruises so he can remember this later. He gasps when he finally, _slowly_ eases inside tight, warm, _perfection_.

And Jay works him slowly at first, his gaze intense while he rolls his hips in a sensual rhythm for them both, driving to make them _one_ , to bring them closer and closer to the edge.

To make it _more_ , to make it _hotter_ , Jason starts up with the monologue, his voice deeper and twisted with the old Gotham draw,

“ _God_ you feel _so_ — _fucking_ — ** _good_** ,” with a sudden hip drop to bury Tim completely, to make him cry out, “so _deep_ , so _hard_ for me, Baby Bird. Just for _me_.” And those hips roll under his hands, the wet glide driving him to touch the secret, hidden spots of Jason’s body. “An’ you _love it_ , don’t you? You love how _tight_ I am, how _good_ I feel around your cock. You want to fill me up so bad. Gonna make me yours, aren’t you?” And those eyes darken while Jason slides _up_ and slowly works back down, “Make me _your_ Robin, Tim.”

“God, Jay! Fuck—“ and his heart stutters for that important second, arching to meet Jason’s ride, driving himself deeper. But he can’t take this—And moves to flip them over, to brace bury himself to the _hilt_ while he stares down at those _eyes_ from a breath away.

“That’s right,” moaned against his mouth when he _moves_ , grips those thighs, “take me, _fuck_ me like you _own_ me.”

And there’s nothing but the driving rhythm, the movement of hips, the arch of Jason’s back, of Tim’s hand fisting in his hair to access the column of throat and upper chest. The cries and urgings of _more_ , _harder_ , _God, give it to me_ bringing them together.

Jay’s arms are around him while he keens, cries out when Tim hits his spot over and _over_ with his rolling, never-ending thrusts. “ _Fuck_ , I’m _close_. I’m so fucking _close_. God, _Tim_ make me _come_.”

Without a pause, he leans over, winds an arm under Jason’s mid-back to lift his hips _higher_ , _closer_ , _deeper_. His strength keeping Jay pressed against him while he swallows those keening cries into his own mouth, down into his own chest for safekeeping as knees press into his sides and the body around him tightens to the edge of _pain_.

He fucks Jay right through his orgasm, holding the shaking body tightly until he finally lets go.

“Fuck _yes_ ,” Jay hisses against his throat while he cries out, “fill me _up_ , Tim. Let me _save you_. Let us _keep_ you.”

And his orgasm explodes through his body in a burst of pleasure and want and _need_ with those words wrapping around the tender parts of him while Jay moans out his name and those arms hold on, just _hold on_.

Panting, rolling right through the aftershocks, they grip each other tightly with so much, too much hanging between them _._

“Well,” Dick’s voice from the doorway and both of them turn, to look at the eldest standing with sleep-mussed hair and gloriously bare. “I see the _plan_ worked.”

Tim blinks, still a little hazy with Jason pressing against him. “Plan?”

The slow, shit-eating grin on Jason’s face really says it all. “What? Thought you _liked_ contingencies, Baby Bird?”

While he crosses the room with a predatory stalk, Dick laughs low and dark, his eyes a sea of blue when he works his hips to crawl over the bed toward them.

“Don’t worry, Tim,” and he ducks his head enough to press his mouth right behind Jason’s raised thigh, his eyes all from the youngest, “we have plans. _So_ many plans.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, take this Tim/Jay continuation.  
> I was doing a top five best line from 'Fracture' (Demon brat going for the Gold line is still number 1) but 'hot, vigilante sandwich' is probably number 3.


	14. No Home for Dead Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A What-If Based of Red Robin #12 so alternate ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't get moving on the next chapter of either story, ah probably because I'm moving. So, nothing long until July. To keep myself from going crazy, I've been writing little things on Tumblr (iphoenixrising), and this is one of them. Once the second part is done, well, I'll post that too.

Someday, seriously _someday_ , he’s going to learn not to piss off immortal bad guys when there’s things like, you know, _windows_ just casually in the way of a pretty epic escape.

There’s a whole lot of _owfuck_ when he comes to, blurry eyes sharpening to the familiar overhang of the Cave; in a twitch, the adrenaline floods him all over again, remnants of the fight with Ra’s when that guy almost _smiled_ and utter those damning words _“well done, **Detective** ,”_ before kicking his hurt ass right out the penthouse window across the street from Wayne Towers.

After the brutal ass kicking he took and instigating the massive plan to be sure no assassins were going to take out any of the people B loved, falling really seemed no big deal. After all, a new Robin was already in place. His team had been under Cassie’s leadership and doing fine. Wayne Enterprises was secure no matter _what_. His year-long absence hadn’t been noticed by anyone in or out of Gotham. His system was rigged to send all the proof B is still alive to the Batcomputer should he not log in after twelve hours (Dick would figure it out, Dick would _save_ Bruce at least— and the Titans have everything he would need to open the massively complicated space/time portal…it’s _fine_ ). All the loose ends are already tied up. No one else is going to be alone. And that crazy picture, the one that popped immediately in his head when Ra’s had asked _“where do you see yourself in twenty years, Timothy?”_ is really not a bad way to go. He has a spot on the right side of his parents, his wishes already set-up for the inevitable (everyone else died, so why not his turn?).

And it’s okay. Really, it’s _okay_ —

He’s already unconscious by the time Batman apparently swooped out of nowhere to pick him right out of the sky.

So waking up is a stretch of the imagination, waking up in the Batcave is painful, jarring because _this_ —this isn’t his place anymore. He isn’t _that_ Robin now. It’s been a long year.

Damian and Steph, Alfred and Dick, it’s almost too much to process. It’s worse when Dick’s hand is on his shoulder, when that guy is smiling down at him and—

“Welcome home.”

It’s an automatic response to jerk away, to jerk _back_ because this isn’t home. There is no _home_ anymore. Not for him, he’s _riff raff_.

Instead, Red Robin, _Red_ , just puts one metaphorical foot in front of another to keep moving—to keep up with _the plan_. There’s things to do now that he’s not, you know, dead and the massively destructive force of the League of Assassins had been beaten at their own game for the time being. The next crucial item on the To-Do list comes to the forefront when the adrenaline wear down a little and he realizes he’s in the most optimal spot to get the next task started.

No time like the present.

Red’s not hooked up to any IVs and can slide off the gurney beside Alfred, avoiding Dick’s touch altogether, completely missing (or ignoring) the confused look on the older man’s face or the slight pause from Damian and Steph.

“Thanks for the pick-up, B,” he thrown in blandly and goes to his clothes Alfred must have laid out on the other gurney. His (Jason’s) Red Robin clothing are still stained, torn. It’s fine. He’s not going to need it for long.

“Kon! Bart!” While throwing on a shirt.

But Dick apparently wants to play at _something_ and is moving again, his mouth open to probably say start with _rote_ “big brothers” shit; the two Titans beat Dick to whatever might have spewed out ( _thank God don’t let me have to listen, to have to **talk** about where I’ve been, what I’ve had to **do**_ ).

“Hey,” Kon is watching him get the undershirt over his head (and taking note of all the bandages) and Bart picks up the ripped, stained cowl and cape combo. “I thought we were supposed to be, I dunno, Batfam for the night or something?”

“Cute,” Red deadpans, stepping into the body suit, “KF, you have the device?”

Bart, hands on his hips, just gives him a patient look, “dude _seriously?_ ” He pulls off his special KF backpack (two words: reinforced motherfucker), and fishes out the smooth metal disc, slightly larger than the palm of his hand. A little more digging and he’s got the accompanying flash drive (the one with the robin in flight—ugh, that shit is painful). Stellar. Gold star for being prepared.

“Awesome, Cyborg gave the all-clear?”

The Bats, who are apparently feeling as strange as he is about being here (it’s been a _year_ , let’s not have a chat right now—busy) are closing in on them, _on the low_ since, well, _Bats_ , as the tunic goes over the body suit. Instead of the cape and cowl, which are just seriously a mess, he fishes a domino out of the utility belt going around his waist. Boots and good to go.

“You know it. He said you may have to tweak the calibrations, doubtful because it’s Vic, but we’re ready to rock, man.”

With decisive nod, Red bypasses the Bats, drops the metal disc on the empty spans of floor, and activates it with his foot. The projection is a circle of static for the moment. He’s moving to the Batcomputer with the flash drive, inserting it before the Bats even reach him, and the big screen lights up with numbers and code. He takes it in for less than a minute, the numbers matching up with the calibrations he’d picked up less that seventy-two hours ago.

The rest of the Titans are coming down the steps from the Manor since, well, _go time_ apparently. They knew the basics of what needs to happen, so prep is really not necessary—

“Tim, what’s—?” Dick reaches out a second time, an automatic gesture that Red discreetly dodges again, turning away to go back to the portal, make sure the calibrations are good.

Dick is apparently not going to be put off again. The hand on his bicep (a familiar one in the _used-to-be-okay_ category—how times have fucking _changed_ , right Batman?) makes him tense unconsciously, ready to fight. Red wrangles  the instinct because, well, this isn’t that time when he was leaving Gotham with Batman stopping him at the city line; instead, he jerks back instead, pulls out of the hold to the surprise on the older man’s face. ( _I’m not a Bat anymore, not your brother, not your partner, not even your fucking friend—)_

“Whoa! Tim, _talk_ to me, okay? What’s happening here?”

His expression is painfully empty, forced neutrality with the rest of the Titans unconsciously stepping up closer to his back, Red puts on the domino while Dick is _staring_ at him with something painful on his face too. “We’re going to see if I need to be in Arkham after all,” he fills in abruptly and steps away, pulling the hand-held grapple out of his belt.

“I don’t understand,” Dick’s hand is still hanging there while Damian and Steph in a similar move, step closer to his back— _their_ Batman now ( _his once too, right? Fuck, nothing, not even—_ ).

“You will,” Red replies, pulling the line out while the portal calibrates from the Batcomputer’s auto-synch. By the time he has one end tied around his waist, the projection becomes a swirling vortex of colors and light. The Bats are looking from him to the Titans to the computer to the Portal and back again while he turns to talk directly to the ( _his—wait, not anymore_ ) team.

A glance at the change, anxiety grips Red, the injuries sustained throb in a dull warning of the _stupid_ shit he’s going to be doing here, but he’s got to focus on the portal, on the calculations and contingencies. He presses the grapple in Kon’s hand. “Okay, on the signal, you pull us out, right?” His stomach clenches hard, but he has to do this. The window of opportunity is going to close soon. It’s now or never.

“Got it.” Kon grips the device with game face _on_. KF is already on _that_ train, grabbing one arm, Cassie the other, BB around his waist, Raven under his arms. The whole team digs their feet into the Cave’s unforgiving floor—ready as can be.

Before he hits this part of the plan, Red looks hard at the group of idiots, comrades, _friends_. “Whatever happens…thank-you for believing.” There’s too harsh of an edge to his voice, one that makes the Bats exchange a glance with a whole lot of _what the hell is **going on here!?**_ And in a blink, before he can really _think_ too hard about it, Red lunges forward, taking off at a run, getting speed and momentum so he can leap right into the heart of the unknown.

And the curtains, the _wall_ that separates space/time, break apart under the onslaught of Red Robin’s resolve and the complex coding directing pilfered Luthor-tech. His body is weightless and yet heavy, flying and yet falling while images and impression flash in the full 360: fights and riots, birth and death, dictators rise to power, governments fall to private armies, too much data to process, too many events, too much—

Red cries out at the escalating images and impressions beating up his cerebral cortex.

He does the one thing that _should_ work, that once he’s reached the images of a broken Gotham, darker than their current, he’s hit the right spot.

A forced breath through the fear and agony lets Red rears back and yells out, “Bruce! _Bruce!_ Help! **Bruce…**!”

And regardless where in time he is, the Batman will always come for his Robin. Even when Jason Todd disappeared in Ethiopia, the Batman wasn’t far behind.

Red Robin has to have _faith_ in that belief, he’s had to have _conviction_ to plan on throwing himself into this realm of _oh_ and _shit_ —he’s had to maintain that the most incalculable aspect of the rescue is based on Bruce Wayne’s _will_. He’s hoping he’s right, but really, he’s betting his own _life_ on it.

Red’s flying/falling body hits the darkness, the metallic sheen of shadows, and the robotic suit looks down at him while those arms with no give clench, _clutch_ , hold (and sometimes, it’s _nice_ when the gamble pays off).

The voice that comes out is not the Batman, the Bruce, he knows, it’s tainted with the suit B is wearing, “Robin. Timothy Jackson Drake. _My Robin_.”

“Bruce,” is shaky when it spills out of him, his gut reaction to this suit spiking fear and _fight_ instincts but the familiar hold keeps him from falling the _fuck_ apart because, welp, hate to say _I told you so_ , but _here the fuck is the proof._

“Bruce! Batman…!” and Red fights to get his arms inside the strange cape to wrap around B’s waist before giving the zip line around him a massive pull, just to let the Titans know _fuck, fuck, get me out of here!_

The abrupt, painful tightening with ensuing jerk around his mid-section makes him grit his teeth in abrupt agony since, well, _owfuck_ and windows that are definitely balls to be kicked through. But Red just locks his arms around Batman ( _his Batman…Bruce_ ) and tries to keep from vomiting all over the futuristic Batsuit as the events go in reverse and just _really_ this is some crazy time travel right here.

When the portal pretty much spits them back out to present, back in the Batcave, Batman doesn’t bother _not_ falling right on top Red, even with the hard yell of pain when the sharp edges dig into him. Just those red eyes looking down.

“Bruce,” he gasps, “Bruce!”

The mouth under the cowl twists into something dangerous and the cape comes _alive_ , digging into Red’s shoulders and arms like a creature trying to drill into his very _bones_.

Something crazy makes the suit jerk, the metal cowl move and a seam shows itself right in-between B’s eyes—whether by design or desire of the man trapped behind the suit, Red has no idea. What he _knows_ instinctually is that he needs to get Bruce out of this damn thing before it seriously gets in the mood to attack.

His hands without gauntlets or gloves come up to that cowl, fingernails in the seam, trying to pull it apart and get to his mentor, his friend, his _partner_ ( _fuck you, Red, not that Robin anymore, remember? That’s Dami now_ ), and all he can do is keep talking, keep _calling_ , and hope Bruce—however far deeply he’s buried—can _hear._

“Bruce! Bruce, c’mon, _c’mon_ and _help me!_ You have to _fight the suit_. I don’t know—“ and he yells again as the cape’s claws sharpen to finer points and bury themselves into his biceps and abdomen, but he can’t _stop_ trying to pull the thing apart, to make his hands and forearms _strain._

“Please, _please_ Bruce!” Blood is running again, and after Alfred went through all that trouble to patch his hurt ass up. Fucking inconsiderate, Red.

But the cape flows around the still body, jerking back like it’s going to _strike_ , and Red’s eyes get HUGE behind the whiteouts ( _this is it—finally, last thing I’m ever going to do it proves I’m not crazy_ ), he doesn’t stop trying, hopes Dick and Dami and Steph and Alfred are _more_ , are _enough_ to make Bruce Wayne, _their_ Bruce come to the fore and fight this fucking crazy _shit_ —

“Whoa! What _the actual **fuck**_ —?” Kon is gripping the cape with his indestructible hands on one side while Cassie, her eyes so wide he can see the whites, grips the other and keep the suit killing him. Raven rises up behind this futureistic Batman, floating serenely, her eyes bright with _power_ and caging the dangerous suit with a slight frown.

“Pull!” Red yells, his wrists cracking, the cowl nudging apart in degrees now that Rave has stepped in to work her magic, his fingers are trembling, and blood is running down, dripping off his elbows and shoulders.

“Father!” Damian is right outside Raven’s power, hands on the barrier with Dick and Alfred and Steph right beside him, horrified and hopeful in the same instance.

Red wedges his fingers in, the sharpness cutting deep into the pads, hitting bone, but he’s pulling, straining until he can get palms in, until he can see a hint of forehead, the glaze over the blueness of Bruce’s _eyes_.

“Almost! Don’t _stop_!” and his vision is wavering with the sheen of wetness, his chest hitches while his muscles strain because Bruce, _alive_ , Bruce who wouldn’t have just tossed him away, Bruce who wouldn’t have abandoned him, taken _everything away_ without at least, _talking_. Bruce who, no matter how far out of touch they’d gotten, still believed in _him…_

With a final yell, Red uses the last reserves of his strength, and finally wrenched the damn cowl _open_ , which is apparently the way to unlocking the rest of the god-fucking-piece-of-shit- _murder_ suit, and Bruce, in his original Batman body suit without the cowl and gauntlets, collapsed on his chest, full weight pinning Red to the Cave floor.

The second Bruce falls out, Raven jerks backward with both hands, ripping the living suit up and _away_ , her black energy surrounding it, caging it in when it reached back to the body that previously lived within.

Red wraps one shaking arm around Bruce’s back, pushes with his heels to scoot them back, get them _away_ from the damn thing, while Raven, Kon, and Cassie wrestle the suit back toward the portal. Bart is suddenly there with both hands under Red’s arms, helping to pull them away, and no one gives a shit if he’s getting blood everywhere or if tears are running down his goddamned face or if he’s making these strange _choking_ noises. Really, got to have priorities.

Red’s bloody, aching hands grip Bruce tightly to his hitching chest while he watches the suit fight against the Titans, fight to get back to them, _screams_ in displeasure at being _empty_ and _without_. Rave, however, is unimpressed as _fuck_ and chants with an angry tone that usually means _so done with this shit, now is time for some power_.

The edges of the cape try to hold on to the portal’s sides when she shoves it through with only a few gestures. Kon and Cassie take care of it with sneers and a whole lot of _ew, ew, ick_.

The arms, formerly limp by Tim’s sides, twitch and firm, the head on his chest lifts with difficulty as Bruce looks down at him, dazed—

“Tim…”

Red gasps, sucks back in a sob because _he never though he’d hear Bruce say his name again_ , and slams his eyes closed so Bruce can’t see the _fear_ , the _shame_ , the everything…

“I knew…you’d figure it out,” and Bruce’s chest rumbles against his, just reinforcing _alive_.

Aching, Tim Drake pulls Bruce back down to hold on as tight as he can, to bury his face in the older man’s shoulder so no one can see him fucking crying like this since—shit, so embarrassing. Just, so much.

Bruce, however, winds a shaky arm around his shoulders and pulls them both up, sitting back on his knees to lace a hand in Tim’s way-too-long hair with the other _tight_ around his back and just _holding the fuck on_.

Bruce is probably saying something important against the top of his head, something like _“how long have I been gone?” “What’s with the new suit?” “Did you wreck the Batmobile? You did, didn’t you?” “Please tell me Luthor’s not President.” “Read any good books lately?” “How are the Gotham Knights doing this season?”_ Well, whatever really because it all just floats in and out with Tim’s tinny hearing because his arms are locked and he’s just so _fucking_ relieved—he couldn’t bring his Dad back, couldn’t bring Darla back, but Bruce…Bruce is _alive_.

Dick falling to his knees beside them startles both, the eldest of the Robins staring with shock and hope and something so raw that Tim hastily pulls away, staggers to his feet on the other side so Dick can snatch Bruce right up with Damian and Alfred already in line for _next_.

And Red’s hands are shaky when Kon grips a wrist, letting him turn away from the Bat’s reunion and take off the domino that’s already a mess from his leaking eyes.

“Hey,” Bart has the other while Cassie and Raven and BB crowd around his back, shielding him from the Bats (since, well, they already knew how things _are_ , Bruce or no Bruce). “Take a minute, just breathe.”

“You did it, T,” Kon’s other hand gently on his shoulder because _this guy_ always, _always_ believed, “you were right all along and you saved his ass. Congrats!”

Overwhelmed, Red nods, just a jerk of his head while he forces himself back under control because it’s time to _go_. He’s got to get out of the Cave before Bruce can start asking those questions and Dick lays it all out for him, or Damian gets to smirk about Robin.

He doesn’t— _can’t_ —see the rejection all over again. Getting it from Dick was enough. After Dami’s worn the R for a year, there’s not going back. The only going back is to the Penthouse perch since Titan’s Tower is off limits now, too. Robin is a member of the Titans; Red, now that the big hunt is over, is going to have to find his own city and try to move _forward_.

With a deep breath, Red pushes aside the pain, the loss for later. He’s been pushing it aside since Damian walked out in his costume, so what’s a few more hours, really?

“You guys,” he starts hoarsely, “thank-you, _thank-you_.” Because really, they didn’t owe him _shit_. He’s not one of them anymore. They’re just _friends_ , friends who agreed to totally have your back with interdimensional _time travel_ and shit.

Cassie ruffles his hair from behind, being extraordinarily gentle like she already knows where he’s at, how close he is to breaking wide the fuck open.

Rave, gingerly, disturbed at the waves of despair, touches the middle of his back, eyes for the blood staining his uniform.

BB, hesitant, “hey dude, shouldn’t you be—you know, with them?”

Red half looks over his shoulder just briefly “no,” softly, “it’s not my place anymore. I need to go back to the Perch, patch myself up. Anyone feel like playing taxi to a lone vigilante?”

And Dick, even though it’s said softly, meant only for the Titans, looks up when Alfred wraps his arms around Bruce and mutters against the returned-Batman’s ear. His chest _aching_ with Bruce _alive_ and _here_ , takes on a completely different type of pain when the implications hit _home_.

He’s on his feet, still in his own version of the Batsuit, mind swimming with thoughts and what he needs to _say_ and what Tim must be _thinking_ and how _long_ it’s been and how _much_ he’s missed the younger Bat, _needed_ him, _wanted_ him with them. How far his family has fractured apart because of hard decisions and painful consequences.

“Tim, wait—!” _Don’t go, don’t leave me_ , _please, please don’t **say** things like that—!_

But he sees Tim’s mouth move even if he can’t hear the words, _get me the fuck out of here._

And Superboy is so fast, too fast to counter when he scoops up Tim and gives Dick just a moment to see his little brother’s _face_ and just, _God_ , so _broken_ and Dick has a pang of _fear_ hit so hard it’s physical pain.  Kid Flash frowns at him and takes off, right on Superboy’s heels, the two speeding out of the Cave.

“—don’t _go_! _Tim!!_ ” But _too late_ is right there in front of him.

Raven, Gar, and Cassie are looking at him, taking in his expression, his outstretched hand. Without a word, Cassie takes to the air, Rave envelopes Gar in her power and the two blink out of sight. Their faces so very disappointed in what he’s let happen—

And Dick lowers his head a little, his fists clenching with recriminations and the sharp tang of failure. He turns slightly to see Bruce’s curious look in his direction while Dami explains that he is now, Robin, Father, the rightful one to wear the tunic. And Dick knows he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do.


	15. No Home for Dead Birds II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not the only way to bleed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this.

He can’t let the Titans try to patch him up. No, he’s been doing it himself for so long now… Red tells them they have to get back to the Tower, to make sure everything is okay, to go back to their lives outside the superhero business, and he would let them know where he is when he finally settles somewhere out of Gotham.

None of them want to go—it’s so obvious in body language and gentle arguing. Maybe because he’s almost shaking himself apart, bandaging the gouges his arms and abdomen, palms and fingers. Raven argues he’s still acting too shocky. He tells her she’s is going to do great things one day—but he’s not in the Titans anymore, not a Bat. And the group of them all visibly flinch.

They finally leave when he’s bandaged up, dressed in civvies, a t-shirt with Einstein’s original equation, hoody with holes in the sleeves for this thumbs so the bandages can be hidden.

Kon pulls a bro and hugs him hard, the guy so very _not okay_ with how this is panning out. Bart grips his forearms, face disturbed at whatever he sees. The smaller kid doesn’t need to say anything; his hold tightening to the point of pain is enough to get the message across. Cassie is overwhelmed when her hands gentle and she holds him with her whole body, trying to say _something_ —he interrupts her with how good of a leader she and BB are doing and the team is in the best hands. Raven doesn’t _hug it out_ , but her eyes are alight with knowledge. She holds his wrist gingerly, places a crystal in the palm of his hand and closes his bandaged fingers over it. The small object is warm and not from the heat of his skin; it throbs once and then goes dormant. BB…looks _disturbed_ at this course of action, grips him by the elbow and leans in:

“Dude, let me talk to Dick, okay—?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Gar,” Red tries to be kind about it. “Bruce is going to get better, Dick’s probably going to go back to Nightwing, and Damian is going to be Robin.” He shrugs slightly, trying to be factual about the whole thing.

Gar’s expression is enough to call him on his bullshit.

“Tim, _man_ , this is some bullshit—“

“It’s okay,” but his voice is wobbly, “really, it’s just how the cards had to fall.”

“Okay, Tim. But, you call us, asshole, the minute you get _somewhere_ , you call us.”

He gives a sharp nod and the group of them leave the Perch reluctantly, trying to linger while he packs only a change of clothes and his laptop. Identification and emergency cash. He leaves the Red Robin suit, the utility belt, the harness (Jason’s identity), unsure if he should take it, if he deserves it, if it really is _his_.

He heads down to the hidden basement when the leave, firing up the old Civic and closing up the Perch. He sets the security system and drives without thinking.

At one a.m., the airport in Gotham is deserted. A few sparse people are scattered around, waiting on flights; the cheery attendant is annoyingly chipper when she tells him about the slightly delay. He sits his ass down with the light backpack, hood pulled up, and deletes the missed calls on his phone.

Dick.

The Manor’s kitchen phone.

Batman’s work cell.

He doesn’t listen to the messages, doesn’t think he _can_ yet. Maybe with more miles between him and them.

The seat beside him groans and Red doesn’t have to look to know who it is.

“Heard you kicked some ass, _Pretender_.”

Jason Todd is just doing civvies since, well, the Red Hood would definitely not be hanging out in an airport waiting area.

Red doesn’t comment, not with where he’s at. Half his brain, however, is coming up with contingencies should Jason pull one of his .45s and notch it at the base of his skull or right at his temple; maybe if a blade glints in a metallic half-smile before it sinks under his ribs. The other half of his brain just whispers _let it happen_.

“You know,” Jason goes on, leaning back, crossing his ankle over the opposite knee like he’s getting _comfortable_ , like they’re talking about the weather or some shit. Like the last time they’d seen each other hadn’t been for the battle for the cowl and that asshole shoved a batarang in his chest with every intent to kill him. “I think we had this conversation once. Maybe a few years ago, yeah?”

Red, _Tim_ (because he doesn’t have a name anymore, does he?), waits silently, bandaged fingers twitch.

“I think I told you—hm, now _where_ was it again? In Titan’s Tower maybe? After I smashed shit up and almost slit you from ear t’ ear. A Joker’s smile to remember me by.” And Jason leans sideways a little, coming closer, but Tim…he can’t _move_ away. Just waits for it.

“An’ I told ya’ what they’d do to you, didn’t I? Warned you _all_ about it, Pretender. How one day, when they didn’t _need_ you anymore, when you were _all used up_ , they were just going to dump you like a bag of _shit_ by the roadside. That you were just a putrid meatbag they used as a shield between those psycho _fucks_ and the pretty little people of this rancid burg. And _all_ the _good_ you did for this messed up _shit stain_ of a city? All the _sacrifices_? Your mom, your Dad, your friends, your _sanity_. Didn’t make a damn bit of difference in the end, did it? Didn’t do _jack_ to change where you ended up. I hate if for you, Pretender, I really do ‘cause yer a smart little shit. But, I _warned_ ya what was going to happen in the end, didn’t I? Don’t cha wish you’da listened?”

And Tim can only blink rapidly to try and clear his wavering vision because _fuck you, Jason_. _Fuck you and your zombie ass_. Even if it was true, even if he was _never_ really one of the Bats, he did the _right fucking thing_.

“Betcha wish you’da taken me up on my offer, Pretender. You coulda been _my_ Robin. You coulda kept your cape and your city and your _place_. No one would have taken it from you. I wouldn’ta let that shit happen, you feel me?”

His chest hitches, true, but still _no,_ just _hell no._ Never would have happened. He never would have _let_ himself or Jason Todd taint the legacy of the Batman.

The older man sighs a little and straightens, “you snooze, you lose, I suppose. Too bad. You an’ me? The garbage the Bats took out? We woulda made one hell of a team.”

And doesn’t have to look to know those green eyes are now on him, sizing him up, taking him in. The uneasy tension between the two of them in this place compounds, becomes something _solid_ , an anticipation. From the way Jason’s hand deceptively lose on his leg is close to some kind of hidden weapon to the tense muscles in Tim’s thighs, ready to _leap_ and rebound against the floor to ceiling windows—

“I been where you are,” finally comes out, a low admission. “And I know a _whole lot_ about that pain.”

Tim just focuses on breathing, on fighting his instincts.

“He _chose_ me, you know. I was one of a hundred street rats he saw every night, ones he ran in without stopping to look twice. Dunno what he saw back then. Maybe ‘cause I had _guts_ enough to try lifting his tires, maybe ‘cause I was gonna brain him with the iron if he got too rough. Who know with him, yeah? But when he grinned down at me, said maybe I should think about another line of _work_ or some shit, I had him, Pretender. He was thinking about me in the cape right then and there, don’t give a fuck if he says otherwise. And it was fucking crazy how like a dream it was—how I never woulda thought I’d be in the Manor with all the food I could eat and a partner that had my fucking back. Bed to sleep in, whatever I could _ask for_. All o’ that because he _chose_ me.”

The old pain rears up and Tim squashes it down because he did good things, chosen or not. He saved people, he…he—

“He’s still fucked up over it all turned out,” the shift is Jason Todd nodding to himself. “You know it, _I_ know it. Hell, Golden Boy probably still blames his stupid ass for not being _the big brother_ he shoulda been, teaching me the ropes, which shoulda happened. That fucker. That’s why they give the leeway they do, yeah? Why they still offer for me come back if I wanna, that they can _help_ , like they can take away what the Pit did and how clawing my way outta my own _grave_ fucked me up. Like they can fix that shit somehow.” A decisive chuckle, “ _the monster is not in my face but in my **soul**_ : that’s from Mary Shelley, Pretender.  An’ that’s just how it _is_. The two of them don’t believe it, but that don’t make it any less true.”

A gruff noise, like Jason Todd is trying to _laugh_ and just can’t manage it.

“All ‘cause he chose me to do the job. You, though…well, he didn’t really chose _you_ , now did he?”

And the quiet of the airport sinks in a little deeper to his bones because Jason knew all about the scars on the _soul_.

“Maybe that made Golden Boy’s choice _easy_ , Pretender, so’s you shouldn’t take is _personally_. That little demon? He’s _blood_ , you know. Golden Boy was the _first_ so _he’s_ practically blood, too. The first chosen partner. Me, well, second is never as good. But you? _You_? Just a little high society rich brat what wanted to make a _difference_. Only thing you had going for you was smarts. Hell, from the old newspapers, he was too _fucked up_ to tell ya ‘no’ anyways. But ya can’t blame yourself for none of that, you feel me? You did what cha could do. Didn’t matter much in the end of it ‘cause we see how it all fell into place. Ain’t nothing you can do to fight blood ties, kid, to fight them what gets _chosen_. You should be glad you hung on to it _this_ long. Hell, now that they ain’t gotta keep it under wraps, where you’re place is _really_ at, has always been, you can move on with your life. Be a normal kid.  _Fuck_. Sometimes wish _I_ had that option, but, well, we play the hand we’re dealt in life. Or death.”

With deceptive grace and ease, Jason works his lean body to stand _up_ , arches his back to stretch. “Here’s hoping you gots a good hand after all this, Pretender. Really. But, hey now, lemme tell ya a _joke_ before you fly off to whatever bum-fuck Egypt you might be headin’ to.”

For the first time during the one-sided conversation, Jason Todd leans down enough that he can look at the tight expression on Tim’s face, that those green eyes can twinkle with the agony he came here to cause.

“What red and green and splattered _all_ over?” The maniacal grin, a slash of white in his face, “dead Robins. Heh, _get it_?”

Without waiting for a retort or reaction, Jason straightens again, laughing to himself as he walks away, and Tim, Timothy Jackson Drake sinks further into the plastic chair, blood seeping through the bandages on his hands because he’s gripping the backpack strap so _tightly_.

It’s not the only way to bleed.


	16. NSFW Tumblr Prompt: DickTimJay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy hadn't contacted Dick or Jay in three week, so they had to come find out what's been keeping Baby Bird. Based on this Ask:  
> Here’s a nice image for you. Jason has Tim bent over the counter in their kitchen fucking him slow and DEEP while Dick sits on a barstool naked as the day he was born and watching his eyes lazy but hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, All-Seer like this on Tumblr and said hell yeah to adding it here. Welp, have some smut.

It’s not even dawn yet, just enough moonlight to highlight movement in the shadows. And those shadows flutter and fade, wave along straining, glistening skin, reaching, clawing hands, and writhing bodies. The viewer is gripping the base of his seat in white-knuckled hands, where he was told hands have to _stay_ , and his predatory gaze sharpens on the two intent on giving him one _hell_ of a show.

Tim bites his lip so hard he almost brings blood, bare upper body laying over the counter in a mass of _want_ and _need_. The wicked scars along his back catch in the sparse light, give Jay a path for his mouth and lips and tongue. He’s still in jeans (barely), fly open, black boxer briefs showing along with the savage and sharp ridges of his hips as he _moves_ in a graceful and primal need for friction against Tim’s ass, still covered in the Red Robin tights. But not for _long_.

Literally, Tim had gotten back to Titans Tower twenty minutes ago, getting off the elevator on the communal floor to grab a Zesti and see if Bart may have left some Chinese take-out in the fridge before heading to the Perch to crash.

Well, best laid plans and all that. Emphasis on the _laid_.

He stifles another noise just on principle, biting down again while the sensations from all nerve endings turn up another notch. Not helping, Jay leans over him, chest to back, skin to skin, eyes for Dick’s bare body on full display, mouth for the side of Tim’s neck.

“Look at ‘im, Baby Bird,” the deep darkness of Jay’s tone, something with so much _weight_ , with upmost _power_. “Look how _hot_ he is for you, for _us_. Dickie’s a man in _need_.”

Sluggishly, since his he is seriously riding sleep dep and _surprise_ , and _oh **God,**_ Tim’s slide and finally catch the wild look on Dick’s face, the way his body is almost vibrating with tension in those sleek muscles and sinews—an intense, coiled mass ready to strike. It’s so Nightwing in _time to get serious_ mode, an unpredictable kind of dangerous. His erection is full and heavy, wet at the tip, and Tim’s mouth _waters_ for it, for a _taste_.

This time he makes a noise, and those eyes are drawn right to his face, making him roll his hips up against Jay in instinct. For some reason, he’s glad the utility belt and harness vanished (so he couldn’t escape so Jay claimed) but the domino with the lenses raised stayed on. Just wearing it while Dick is bare and beautiful looking at him, at the two of them together like he wants to devour them—

His stance shifts enough to kick out an foot a little farther to spread himself open. Jay’s mouth at his spine while he talks, and those _hands_ , broad and warm and calloused, move up Tim’s sides, searching and seeking.

“He’s so _ready_ for us, ain’t he Baby Bird?” A dark laugh with the edge of teeth on an old scar, “just wants to throw you up on this counter. Put you on your back so’s he can _pound_ your sweet ass. You know that’s what he wants to do right now. Fill you _up_ so nice. It’s a crying shame, though, Timmy, ‘cause I told ‘im before we _got here_ , he was gonna have to wait _his fucking turn_ , you feel me?”

“Fuck,” Tim moans, reaching back to grip Jason’s wrists _tight_. “You…are a _sadistic_ bastard.”

The laugh against skin makes him shudder, his hands grip _tight_. “I got _volumes_ on how to be a bastard, Timmy. A _nasty_ one,” those broad hands finally in his tights over bare skin, sliding them and the undershorts down, palms moving slowly over the curve of his ass. “And Dickie already _knows it_.”

The laugh that bubbles up from Tim’s chest ends in a harsh noise when Jay nips at an ass cheek before taking a knee, breathing against him and is he _really_ going to—?

“Jay…” in a shaky voice since, well _this is a first_.

“Hold on to the counter, Timmy,” those hands take the last of the clothing off and run back up the hard muscle of his calves and thighs, fingers sinking in to the muscle. “Watch Dick while _I do it_.”

_Oh…God…_

His forehead hits the hard surface at the first touches of Jason Todd’s _mouth_ —just, **fuck**.

“Tim-my,” Dick drawls out, and those eyes so _hot_ while looks at what Jason’s doing to Tim’s _face_ while he _does it_. And the rippling of muscle, the strain of sinews, the faint sheen, Dick undulating on one of the island’s stools, dexterous hands gripping the seat (and _no one can ever know this happened here._ **Ever**. Bart will seriously never let him down—)

“Dick,” he groans out, followed on the heels of a hoarse cry when his body opens up more under Jay’s expert hands and mouth, “he’s going to _kill_ me.”

And all Dick can do is lean as forward as far as he can while still gripping the seat, still a few feet too far to _reach_ , “he _loves_ it, Tim. I bet you taste _perfect_.”

“ _Jesus,_ don’t say things like—“ fingers right on this spot interrupt him, white lights bursting behind his eyes. “Jay… _Jay,_ that’s so—Oh my _God_ …”

And a sharp slap to his ass before Jay’s hand _grips_ him, holds him open for _deeper_ , for _more_. Tim’s forehead meets the counter again, his hands tightening, to keep from riding the cresting wave of pleasure shooting up his spine.

After some vicious sounds of licking and slurping Timmy like he’s the next best _fucking_ thing, Jason just ducks around the ass he’s currently gripping, pulling into his mouth, and the smile directed at Dick is pure, fucking _evil_. “Perfect, Baby Bird,” he croons while looking the suffering eldest, “you’re so _good_ for me, just like I _want_ _it_. Like I _need_ it.”

Through his gritted teeth, Tim manages, “get up. I’m _ready_.”

“Aw, not yet. I’m just getting _started_ , Timmy,” and his tongue slides along the back of Tim’s thigh while he watches Dick watch him.

“I _hate_ you,” Dick snarls, licking his lips back at the notorious _tease_ of the three.

In response, Jay nips at Tim’s ass cheek without looking away from Dick’s impressive erection. Still, he goes back to it, intending to make Timmy _keen_ —

“Fuck!!” The youngest of the three arches his impressive upper body, heat in his cheeks and chest.

The sight of him like this, of _Tim_ so undone, trembling in pleasure, his body so deliciously responsive, makes Dick moan out loud while his erection _throbs_ with need, “tell me how it feels, Tim. Let Jay know he’s doing a good job.”

And Dick’s deep tone sends more shivers through his, going right to his cock while he tries to keep himself braced and just _this.._. _God, Jason is eating him like it’s the best thing—_

“I’ve—there, _fuck,_ **_there_** ,” he pants out, “yes, _Jay_ , I—ah, _please. Please!”_

“Adjectives, Tim,” Dick specifies, gaze riveted.

“Too—too good, too much, he’s going to make me come—aahh, **_FUCK_**! _”_

“He might,” Dick grins back at him, arching his own back, working his hips on the barstool just so Tim can _see_ the rhythm, _knows_ what he’s going to get after Jason has his _fill_. “Or he might keep you _Just. Like. That._ Right on the edge, Tim. He’ll keep you from going over.”

And those fingers work him, get him ready, make him arch again while Dick can only watch without _having_.

And _finally_ , the low cry coming out of Tim’s chest is what Jay’s been _waiting_ for. “Perfect,” he uses his discarded shirt to wipe his mouth as he rises. “All relaxed and ready for me now, aren’t you? So’s I can slide in deep, fill you up, yeah?”

Tim forces his arms to firm up enough to press his back against Jay’s chest, his hips rub enough to make Jay breathe a moan against his neck. That broad hand cups his chin just as the other palms his hip, the wicked slide so close to what Tim _needs_.

“ **Fuck**. **Me**.” Or so help him, he is just going to grab Dick and lock down the Perch —

His face is turned back to Dick’s tortured expression, the older Bat biting his lip as Jason finally, finally eases inside him, filling him up by degrees, so _slow_ — and God, he wants to scream with how good it is. How much he _needs_ this right fucking now.

“C’mon, Baby Bird, let’s give Big Wing a show.”

And Jay…makes that shit a _reality_.

It takes approximately _zero_ time for him to be ready for a nice and easy _ride_ that becomes so much **_more_**. And at first, he was biting into his own wrists to try and keep somewhat _quiet_ just incase those pesky sensor thought he was being _murdered_ or something and sent out a distress call to the Titans—but Jay isn’t _having that shit_.

He likes to _torment_ , to torture, and by the strain on Dick’s face, by his hard and leaking erection, Jay is getting exactly what _he_ wants out of the ordeal. He _knows_ , even in the short time they’ve been sleeping together, what it means when Tim makes _noises_. He and Dick both know when the noises start, like they’re dragged from the depths of places Tim _hides_ , Baby Bird is finally letting _go_. Thus, the noises become so fucking _hot_ for them both, and they bet behind Tim’s back on who can make him keen the loudest, the most, the _longest_ in between times when Tim is only concerned with _their_ pleasure.

The taller, older Bat has both Tim’s wrists gathered in one big palm, holding both together right at the small of Tim’s back while he fucks, _deep_ and _hard_ at a rhythm just slow enough to keep Tim on the _edge_ of _not enough, not enough_. And it’s at this pace that Tim can’t control himself, his hips buck back trying for faster, noises spilling out from deep within his chest because _God, it’s so good, more, **more**_.

“ _Fuck_ , Timmy, you’re so _tight_ around my cock, squeezing me, tryin’ ta make me _come_ deep in you. Want me ta fill you up, don’t cha Baby Bird? You want _all of me_ in you, leave you _sloppy_ for when Dick can finally get at chu?”

Tim’s arms twitch at the words, but Jay’s hands tightens immediately, holding on at the wrists and hip.

“Yeah, that makes you every _harder_ dunnit? Knowing we’re both going to have you. I ain’t gonna let you come yet. Oh no, no, no. Dickie’d _really_ be pissed then.” And Jay’s hips speed up slightly, brushing over that _spot_ , bringing the cry out of Baby Bird, “when I give ‘em permission, Big Wing is gonna be on you like you _read_ about, Timmy. He’s gonna throw you the _fuck up_ on this counter _and pound_ you until you _scream_ for him, yeah?”

“Jay! _Fuck_ Jay _, **please**_ **. Please!”**

But the hand on his hip just moves to his bobbing cock, circling the base so he _can’t_ —

“Ain’t that _right_ , Dickie? You want I should let you finish Baby Bird?” And his smile is sharp and just this side of _pain_ with his orgasm so _close_ and Timmy tightening even more around him. Each cry just brings him closer to _losing it_.

Dick, however, gripping the seat, whole body tense, is ready for action, his eyes on Tim’s painfully aroused face and back to Jay’s rolling rhythm as it gains momentum. His pulse is beating fast, his cock a throbbing point of _need_.

Voice hoarse, eyes never leaving the show in front of him, “hurry. I’m going to break my _leash_ , Jason.”

The red-head’s grin just gets _wider_ and he goes back to what is doing _right here_ , leaning down over Tim’s held arms while he _fucks_ so he can be heard over the broken moans and gasps.

“Fuck I _love_ you, Timmy…. I love you when I’m fucking you…I love you when I’m fighting you… I love you just when I’m holding you…I love you when I’m _beside_ you… You know that, don’t chu?”

A half sob and Tim’s nodding against the counter, eyes wet with it all—his body on the knife’s edge of pleasure so _sharp_ and the pressure building up, winding him so _tight_ and fucking _Jason_ ’ _s_ words going right to the other part of him that _needs_. “Jay… _Jay_ …”

“We ain’t,” Jason grunts, the sound of their bodies meeting, so fast, so _hard_ now, “gonna let chu _go_. Yer _his_ …yer _mine_ god _dammit_ , so’s you better _get that_.”

Harder, faster now, and he _can’t come_ , “yes, _yes_! Fuck _please._ ”

Tim almost screams when Jay slams home a final time, the older man yelling out as he reaches the pinnacle, small jerks of his hips as he does what he promised, filling Baby Bird _up_ , riding the wave of his orgasm in the tight warmth, with Tim’s panting, flushed, trembling form right under him.

Jay releases Tim’s wrists, pressing small kisses to the back of his neck, rocking so gently, hiding his face in Tim’s neck for a moment so he can get control of himself and the tightness in his chest since, well, he hadn’t meant to get all _emotional_ and shit, yeah? But, god _dammit_ , Timmy, you can’t just disappear for two weeks without word and think that’s _okay_. It’s not anymore. That ain’t just _fine_.

Once the wavery quality of his vision clears and he’s stopped spasming from one _hell_ of a session, Jay straightens and is glad his knees can hold him while he eases himself out slowly, his thumbs making small circles over Timmy’s dimples. Below him, their third is a trembling, panting _mess._ And Jay grins wide, his hands giving a lingering caress over the scars on Tim’s back.

Then his gaze shoots to Dickie while his eyes are still glazed, and he steps to the side.

“All right, Big Wing. _Get 'im_.”

Tim has a moment of clarity through the fog, arms to shaky to hold himself up, his body on fire with the need to _come_ so _hard_ when he hears Jason say those words—his gaze jerks to Dick so fast his neck protests, but the oldest moves like a _shot_ off the bar stool, pouncing on him like he’s gone _feral_.

Hands rough and fast jerk him away from the support of the counter, and he fights his body not to buckle and not to instinctually fight back at the same time, giving Dick every opportunity to lift him up by the back of the thighs and _attack_ his mouth with all teeth and tongue.

_This_ side of Dick Grayson is reserved for few and far between, when the oldest is so far _gone_ , so full of _want_ that he _needs_ too much and gets rougher, more _rabid_. And fucking _Jason_ knew, pushed the oldest to this on _purpose_.

But Tim can do nothing but be held against the front of Dick’s bare body, his cock hard and leaking against Dick’s and let those hips grind them together while his mouth is ravaged, invaded, claimed.

He tries to say _something_ , but the noises are smothered, drawn away, and the hand in his hair tightens painfully, becomes a fist to turn him enough for _deeper_ and _more_.

Abruptly, Dick pulls back, his eyes narrow and _dark,_ deep blue, wild enough that Tim’s breath catches, his own eyes go wide—before he’s pretty much thrown on top the counter, bouncing just once with the force and manages to avoid slamming the back of his head.

Dick leaps up with animalistic grace, every muscle tight, like a predator stalking, eyes taking in everything.

On his knees, those hands grip Tim’s hips tight enough to leave bruises tomorrow, and the youngest of the three manages a trembling,

“Dick—“

Before he can say more, Tim’s pulled with those hands, thigh spread around hips so he can be filled up again, hard and fast, his ass right in Dick’s _lap_ so the older man can move him into each thrust, his long length hitting that _fucking_ spot with every drag in _and_ out.

The tease of pain from being filled so abruptly makes Tim turn, squeeze his eyes shut, bite down on his lower lip. He’s too sensitive for the hard, _brutal_ pace Dick sets immediately, pulling Tim into his lap, into his _cock_ and _oh God…oh **God**_. He’s still so _wet_ from _Jay_ and now Dick is fucking it inside him _deeper_.

The hands change position without stopping the pace, a forearm under the small of his back to hold him at the right height while those carved hips drive them both _closer_.

Dick’s free hand turns his face back and Tim is panting again, looking at the oldest of the three leaning over him without _stopping_.

“Watch me while I _fuck_ you, Tim. _Don’t look away_.” The growl is so _close_ to the Bat, so crude, so different than Dick’s usual play, but hitting Tim right in the kinks.

And the noise is ragged, but Tim complies even as Dick shoves his legs up, leans in and bends him almost in _half_ so their face can be close during the punishing rhythm and _deeper_ , _more_ , _harder_ is quickly becoming his _reality_.

“God! Oh my _GOD, **Dick!**_ ” His back arches, his cock weeping, bouncing, the pressure in his abdomen winding so _tight_. His thighs against Dick’s chest and he reaches up to grip the wrists by his head, gives himself _over_.

“Yes,” Dick hisses out between thrusts, “ _mine_. _Ours._ You _left us_ worrying.”

“W-Won’t again,” and Tim bites back a _scream_.

“No. You. _Won’t_.” Each word punctuated with a hard thrust against his spot until Dick seals their mouths together again.

And from the barstool, Jay’s eyes are _hot_ for them, his hands fist while Dick goes to _motherfuckin’ town_ on Baby Bird, driving them both to the brink of sanity—

“I’m—! Dick, _I_ —“

“You’re going to come _when I tell you to_ ,” Dick growls against his mouth in reply. “ _Not before._ ”

The knees and thighs are shaking against him, Tim’s eyes so wide, dilated, his mouth hanging open for the noises to _pour_ out, but Dick doesn’t let up even though his cock is _so hard_ , and Timmy is still so _tight_ and warm and _wet_ after Jay took him. And just _God, **theirs**_ **.** Timmy needs to _understand_ that, needs to know it down to his _bones_. And Dick latches on to his neck, to suck so he can feel Tim’s noises in his throat, can feel the vibrations. The hands around his wrists are so tight with strain and _need_.

His abdomen is coated in Tim’s wetness, his thicker, shorter dick so painfully hard and throbbing with the need to _come_ while Dick grits his teeth before he _sucks_. His hips drive them forward, trying to get so far, so _deep_ Tim will never be able to carve them _out_.

He pulls back just enough to see Tim’s face, his features tight with pleasure bordering on _pain._

“Say it, Tim,” Dick snarls out, panting, “say you belong to us.”

With his brain short-circuiting, the only thing he can think of is _oh. My. God. Too much. Not enough._ Tim’s mouth opens, but only ragged moans—

Dick slams home, jarring the younger man under him.

“ _Say it,_ ” Jay echoes darkly, gripping the seat just like Dick had been. “If you believe it, you _say it_ , Timmy.”

And he does rear back, arching hard, “ _yours_ , oh my _fucking **God,**_ I’ve been _yours_ for _years,_ you **assholes**!”

_Finally_.

Dick wrenches a hand away, grips Tim at the base and jerks him in time with the rhythm of his hips, capturing the scream with his mouth, not missing Jay’s quiet moan just a few feet away.

“ _Now,_ ” he demands in Tim’s mouth, “come right _fucking_ _now_ , Tim!”

And with the twist of his wrist and a snap of Tim’s hips to bury Dick to the _root_ , Tim finally screams again and spills between them, the orgasm _explodes_ through his synapsis, taking him _over_ so hard his ears ring, and Dick just fucks him through it, taking him _higher_ , like they’re _flying_ —

Dick yells something in another language and more heat and _wet_ inside him, too _much_ for his senses—

Tim collapses back to the counter, blacks out completely before Dick’s arms give out and he falls on the younger man beneath, his whole body trembling with the strain and intensity.

Jay is right there after a few moments, helping Dick up off the counter, keeping the bad knee into account, pretty much lifting the older man in his arms to set him down on the stool he’d just vacated. He lets Dickie sit there and pant and enjoy his afterglow while he checks on—

Timmy’s muscles are trembling, but Baby Bird is out _cold_ , fucked into oblivion. Well, mission accomplished. Maybe Baby Bird _learned_ something.

More gentle than most think the Red Hood capable, he slides his arms under the youngest and lifts him up against his chest. With a kiss to Dickie, he takes Timmy up the stairs into the Perch, laying him down on his bed. The dark circles aren’t fooling anyone and Jay cleans him up with a warm washcloth, unabashedly rolling him over and checking him while wiping the come dripping out of him, making sure neither he nor Dick seriously hurt their bird. Slightly red, but no blood or tearing, good. He’d be sore as hell, but well, maybe he’d remember to keep them _in the fucking loop next time_.

He digs through the drawers, pulls out a pair of sweatpants and—oh- _ho_ , Timmy has one of Dickie’s t-shirts and one of Jason’s hoodies. He grins while dressing the unconscious teen with tender hands, unable to keep himself from brushing gentle touches over a scar on his back and fingering strands of too-long hair.

He’s got Timmy dressed in civvies and up in his arms again by the time Dick, now dressed and less shaky, is at the bottom of the stairs. The two exchange another sweet kiss over the head of their third and trail over to the elevator, letting the thing take them up to the waiting Batplane they brought from Gotham just for _this_ little occasion. And they don’t clean up the mess because the Titans needed a re-fresher apparently: when one of them calls to get an update on where the _fuck_ Timmy might be since they ain’t heard _jack_ from him in thirteen days or so, well, answers better be fucking _forthcoming._

Dick warms up the plane while Jay lays the exhausted Tim in the cot built-in one of the walls. He covers Tim, touches his fingertips to that slightly plumper bottom lip and leaves Baby Bird to sleep it off during the trip home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had some hilarious conversations about this short. Mostly because Dick's the performer and Jay's the ringmaster (lol, right??). So, hope you enjoyed it. I'm iphoenixrising so you can find me and my little drabbles there.


	17. Night Sky II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Night Call: Tim/Age Appropriate Dami in a variation of the Fracture Verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graywhims asked for a continuation on Tumblr and it took a while, but I had to comply. The end went in a crazy direction I didn't really consider when I started it but meh. We'll see what happens maybe. Ah, yeah, this is explicit. No like, no read.

And it isn’t the first time he’s ridden behind Dami on a Ducati. It _is_ the first time he hasn’t bitched about it.

Like all the Bats, Dami pilots the damn thing _smoothly_ , weaving through traffic, balancing the bike effortlessly even though they’re still in their secret identity wear, but based on where they were fifteen minutes ago, Tim can’t work up the effort to berate Baby Bat. Nope, not when he’d pretty much deflected Dick’s mother-hen sixth sense with a short and sweet,

“ _Grayson_ , I have him.”

Silence on the line for a full sixty seconds while they took the back elevator down to the hidden garage, and Dami’s hand felt hot, pressed against the small of his back just far enough for the fingers to curl slightly over his hip.

Then Dick said something low and Dami just laughs a little in the phone before hanging up as the doors slid open and he chose the red and black Ducati (the R decal in the hidden compartment under the seat). Helmets and they’re _gone_.

The bikes gives a jump under Tim’s thighs and he moves instinctively with it when they dive down in the hidden passage, taking them into the depths of the Perch’s underground bunker.

When the bike comes to a halt, both vigilantes automatically moving with the side slide to put the thing right beside the Red Robin bike still parked and waiting for patrol; Tim doesn’t give it a second glance as the helmet comes off and he stands with the bike still between his legs.

Dami already has his helmet off, looking up with those fucking _eyes_ just— _damn_.

His breath rushes out when Dami’s lips curves in a smile, a soft, genuine smile. It makes his features softer, the harsh lines easing with something _real_. No masks. Tim leans down by some crazy kind of instinct and his hands takes up a spot twining in the back of Dami’s hair while he presses his open mouth against the younger man’s. The slight pain in his shoulder is not immediate, not insistent, so he’s fine to make this _good_.

And, damn, it is without even _trying_.

Dami has a hand on his jaw, leaning back enough that he can slide his tongue past Tim’s lips, wrap around his, work into the kiss, make noises in Tim’s mouth—

 _Fuck_.

Tim draws back enough to see Dami’s eyes, to catch the heat before he smirks, something evil and dirty. He dismounts the bike, straightens in a powerful, sensual move, back up slowly to the stairs while holding Damian’s crystal gaze. He give no shits peeling his jacket off and throwing it without care, drawing off the tie slower.

“Baby Bat,” his voice dark and _deep_ , “time to make me keen, remember?”

And with an invitation like that?

Dami has the bike on the kick stand and is following, watching the buttons on Tim’s shirt pop one by one while the older vigilante takes the steps backwards effortlessly. His own jacket drops off his shoulders while his eyes devour the motion of dexterous hands, his tie discarded, half the buttons on his shirt undone by the time they reach the landing. It’s a struggle for him not to lunge when Tim’s smirk becomes wicked, calculating.

“Lights, 15%,” gives them just enough to have more shadows than real vision. “So, what the plan, _Robin_?”

But as the younger Bat has never been particularly known for patience or teasing once he knows what he _wants_ , he’s already close enough to palm Tim’s hips, thumbs moving just above the waist band of his pants, to put them chest-to-chest, to crane his neck down and bring them together again. The noise vibrates against his chest, setting a slow burn inching up his spine, and the hands he’d been admiring, hands he could very well _appreciate_ during a spar, are on him, the side of his throat, fingers tangling in his hair. Unthinking, Dami backs Tim right up against the wall, blocks the shorter man in with his body, with his _wants_ and _needs_ long suppressed coming to the _fore_.

And it helps nothing, the sinful things Tim does with his tongue, the tightening of the hand in the back of his hair, the sweet _pull_ when his neck arches and the edge of teeth are at his jugular.

Tim huffs a laugh against skin and sinks into the taste of Dami, his too-long hair against the taller Bat’s jaw line, and he can only _just_ turn his face enough to get a hint of Tim’s scent when the mouth at his neck becomes suction. The noise coming from Damian Wayne is sharp with an edge of softness; it goes right to Tim’s cock and he _bites_.

In a fast movement, Damian has him by the back of the thighs, lifting the smaller man up against the front of his body, and takes the least amount of steps possible to half-drop Tim on the couch, taking a knee to grip the undershirt and pull with both hands.

Tearing cloth. The soft light highlighting muscle and scars and _perfection_.

Dami has had too many fantasies of this moment, too many possibilities of how things should _go_. He’s seen himself, his _hands_ , his _mouth_ all over an undulating Timothy Jackson Drake—searching, finding every spans of sensitive skin, every weakness, each bringing him closer to this _goal_. He’s imagined himself pinned to brick and mortar in the shadows of a gargoyle by Red Robin while he _writhes_ under the calculating moves, the more experienced touch, to find _more_ things his body may _crave_.

None of those imaginings are with him in the here and now as his hands take the shirt away, skimming over shoulders and down the arms; he nuzzles in the sweet and sharp curve of neck, almost groaning when Tim tilts his head to allow more exploration.

“Dami, _touch me_ ,” is hoarse, a vibration in Tim’s throat by his cheek, and the younger of the two shudders delicately with the permission. He has an arm around the middle of Tim’s back, bracing with his other to hold them up while his mouth starts at the jugular to lick and nip and _suck_. Even while he starts to lose himself in this, the smooth satin of skin under him, the scars and strength and steel pressed against him, he takes note of every move, ever sigh, every noise. A spot on his collar bone, teeth kissing along the curve and Tim’s legs, _thighs_ are moving restlessly, one still trapped between Dami’s knees, the other already raising to nudge against Dami’s hip.

“Timothy,” out with a breath against his pectorals, dangerously close to a tight nub, “ _Tim_.”

The older blinks, eyes a little hazy, but he grips Dami’s shirt and pulls. The remainder of the buttons fly, Tim pushing him upright to get the boundaries out of the way, sliding his leg out from between Dami’s to kneel, to take his mouth, to get more of that _taste_ while the clothes come off. This is quickly becoming _not enough_ , his skin itching for skin.

The shirt and tank underneath go flying off somewhere not important, Tim’s hand in Dami’s hair, directing, turning them to get _deeper_ and _more_ , to press their bodies together so he can roll his hips, and _yes, yes_ , the younger is just as _hard_ and _wanting._

In a precise move that could have been countered should Dami want, Tim turns them, lays Dami out under him so the dim highlights the mocha smoothness of his skin slightly broken by old scars.

“God, _look_ at you,” Tim’s _eyes_ with _heat_ and _need_ in the night, his voice low and _dark_ with everything he thinks about doing to this body, to allow this body to do to _his_. “Dami…Dami, I’m _honored_ ,” before he ducks his head, bracing himself on his good arm while the other hand trails over skin, fingers splayed. It’s his turn to learn the texture and taste, the spots to cause a reaction, to make the finely toned sinews _strain_.

And, _God,_ Tim hadn’t been with anyone since he left Dick and Jay, he’d been a little too messed up about the situation (not the _choice_ because he’d been right; lonely, heartsick, but _right_ ) to think about a rebound or anything to make himself try to _feel_ something other than that intense _pain_ , but in the here and now—with Dami, with his scent and his hands and his _taste_ and his _need_ , Tim feels _more_ and it’s so effortless to focus his attention on the man under him. It’s so _perfect_ to be the cause of the heat turning up a notch in those blue eyes, to feel the hands tighten in his hair when he licks the little brown nub and blows before he _sucks_. It’s exactly what he needs to feel alive again, to feel like he’s doing the right thing for the right reasons.

Under him, while he worships the body, _Dami_ , and the noises that spill out of him, the echoes of moans, the growls, the sighs, all of it goes right to the younger man’s ears, straight down where he’s straining against his zipper.

Dami almost lays his forearm over his eyes with the intense sensations moving through his synapsis at the touches and manipulations. He finds his hips moving unconsciously trying to find friction, trying to get _more_ because Tim is making him slowly lose his mind like this—and in return, the older man is losing that careful calculation and giving in to his desires. The touch isn’t planned or methodical, but desperate and _desired_ , completed with a reverence Damian has never experienced with Colin or Stephanie. The sounds coming from deep in Tim’s chest just make it so much hotter, _intense_ with the realization the older man above him is just as turned on touching him like _this_. He is taking his _time_ to learn the nuances of Damian’s body.

He and Colin had been awkward, attempting to feel out the rhythms of their bodies as well as one another’s (after Father’s… _uncomfortable_ breach of the subject, he decided to wait until he was sixteen; Grayson did so he felt it an appropriate age). The few repetitions had made the act less self-conscious but not all encompassing; his few times with Stephanie had lead him to understand the act of pleasure _better_ but still had been uncoordinated and slightly uncomfortable regardless of her attempts at making it light and fun (“we can stop any time, okay? Just tell me how you feel. Tell me what feels good to you, what feels _right_ with your body.” He had as much as possible and she had been a knowledgeable and patient lover, kind in her own way; he just…it hadn’t ever been _intense_ as no fault of hers).

Neither of them had caused such feeling to course through his blood, to make his entire body arch without his command; their hands had not been so certain tracing along his skin, nor so thorough, mapping him out as if he is being _owned_.

And Tim finally leans his lithe body up, away, so he’s on his knees, shirtless and panting slightly, eyes so bright in the dim, intense and possessive of the body he’s looking down upon. Damian groans aloud at the expression, the _fierceness_. His eyes watch Tim’s hands slide over his own body, spread over his chest, and down his abdomen until his fingers are dancing along the ridge of his pants, inside the waistband to show a glimpse of hip bones and flashes of red underneath.

The move is so sensual, Damian pants with it, his eyes helplessly following, noticing those fingers have avoided the scars as much as possible—perhaps absently, perhaps not.

He does not realize he has moved until his darker skin is against the paleness, gripping Tim’s waist tight in both hands—his eyes never leaving those fingers unbuckling the belt, pulling at the button.

Tim pauses before opening his pants, a small smirk, and moves to the front of Dami’s pants instead, sliding his fingers in a parody of what he’d done to his own body, slipping in the waistband to feel the muscles clench and relax under his hand.

“Tell me. _Dami_ , _tell me_.”

The shudder works its way through him, but the younger can only grip tighter, “yes, _yes_. Touch me…”

The growl makes him harder than the fingers loosening his belt, opening up his pants to the warm air and the light. Tim hops up in a flawless move gripping with a silent command for Damian to arch his back and lift his hips, to give the older Bat _all of him_.

The slacks slide away, discarded with the shirt, and light pink paints Damian’s face and upper chest; this time his forearm does come up to cover his eyes. He has been seen bare before and yet—

Tim has his wrist in a tight grip, moving it with real strength, leaning down to bring their mouths together again in admonishment.

His free hand, lightly, teasingly, runs fingers over the cut of Dami’s hips and _down_ while his tongue wraps around and slides.

The younger arches, cry muffled in Tim’s mouth when he palms the slightly curved erection. His own moan is lost between the breath and spans.

“God, _Dami_ , you’re so _hard_ for me. You feel so good, so _perfect_ ,” while he starts working from base to tip, the foreskin sliding over the head in a soft caress.

“Tim, _Tim,_ ” Damian throws his head back, hips starting to roll, to _work_ since the callouses on Tim’s hand feel so _good_ , the rhythm the right kind of slow for the moment. Tim kneels down beside the couch to be able to watch the younger shiver and shudder and _feel_ while he can look over all that skin and muscle move in a striking harmony.

And a remnant from Jay, Tim has developed a _habit_ or, well, a lack of filter from his brain to his mouth when it comes to sex and how he _sees_ everything.

“Look at you,” in a low growl, “ _fuck_ , Baby Bat, you’re so responsive, so fucking _perfect_ with my hand working your cock.” He dips his head to suck the nubbin closest to him again, taking in the ragged noise, tightening his hand, speeding up slightly.

“T—Tim,” and a slattering of Arabic, rapid and rolling off his tongue, brain stuttering enough that he _forgets_.

Still, Tim lets off enough to smirk again. “Don’t worry, Dami. We’re going to make it so good, aren’t we? And you’re going to tell me how you _like it_ , how you _want me_.”

Another string of Arabic, manipulating Dami’s mouth in shapes that _beg_. Tim cuts him off mid-sentence, a demand to take his pants off too before they will be _unwearable_.

Abruptly, Damian wraps him up with both arms, sits up without breaking the kiss, quickly stands, bends, lifts, and carries the lighter man down the hallway of the Perch, desperate for a _bed_ (and eventually lubrication). Tim laughs against his mouth, wraps both legs around him and has no problem _grinding._

Keeping the shoulder in mind, Dami takes a knee on the bed in Tim’s room, and is abnormally careful laying the slighter man out. It’s Dami’s hands that slip inside to feel the curve of bone and more satiny skin, that slip around and take the pants down along with the boxers while Tim reaches out to open the first nightstand drawer for _necessaries_ to lay by his side.

And the low purr from the depths of Dami’s chest, the utterly _pleased_ noise when he sees the proud line of Tim’s hard cock and wetness, all for _him_ , because of _him_ , and _yes_ Tim does _want_ this; that noise makes Tim’s erection twitch slightly even as Dami’s palms warm his knees and slide _up_. Thumbs gently rub over old scars, fingers bite just a little into the muscles of his thighs. Tim arches helplessly against those hands on soft, sensitive skin.

“ _Tim_ ,” his name a whispered prayer, a _benediction_ , “I…I _must_ have—“ and those hands on the back of his knees, lifting slightly while Damian’s hot eyes take in the reddened erection  and he leans close enough to lick a path from base to tip.

“Dami!” Tim grounds himself, gripping the set of broad shoulders between his thighs while the younger of the two becomes acquainted with his most intimate skin, licking and sucking, shuddering as though the taste is _exquisite_.

“F—Fuck,” bursts out when warm and _wet_ surround him, Dami’s tongue moving, Dami moaning around him and just— _Oh God…_

“I—I can’t _reach_ you,” Tim pants, staring down at his glistening cock sliding in and out of Damian’s mouth, his hand gripping the back of Dami’s neck. “C—come up here so I can—“

But he loses everything, arching, a cry wrung from deep in his chest when Dami hollows his cheeks and _sucks_.

And somehow, he’s gripping the younger man with his knees, watching, panting while Dami just lays between his legs, the long stretch of his powerful back and curve of his mocha ass highlighted while he tests and teases, holds and _works_ , hands flexing around Tim’s thighs as though he feels he needs to hold _on_. His eyes closed, Damian feels out Tim’s responses to the pressure of tongue against the crown, the perfect amount of suction, the spasms caused when he attempts to work as much in his mouth as he can. His own erection pressed into the bedding is still prominent as doing this, being _permitted_ , _trusted_ to do this, for Tim to _desire_ him is overwhelming—

“ _Please_ Baby Bat,” he finally babbles, “oh my _God_ , please come here so I can _suck_ you— ** _Fuck_** _!_ I—I’m getting _close_ and I haven’t even—”

Instead, Damian frees a hand to gather the forgotten plastic bottle, slick up his fingers while Tim is distracted, and feel his way down to—

The ragged, low moan is indeed what he hoped for, still working the older man while testing the tight ring of muscle, gently breaching Tim’s body. His eyes flutter, roll up to Tim’s hot gaze and red cheeks, sucking again while he searches for—

As Tim’s body almost jackknifes with the sudden pressure on the pleasure spot, Damian’s eyes become _hotter_ just at the sight of the older man’s straining muscle, head thrown back to cry out softly. Those dexterous hands _tighten_ so perfectly, making Dami work his hips slightly to rub his erection against the sheets below, burying Tim _deep_ to muffle his moan. He cannot help himself, finding every moment more erotic than the last, a burning fire in his blood—build higher and more _intense_.

His second finger joins the first, making gentle yet insistent circles on that spot, and Tim’s body undulates, his cock hardens more against Damian’s tongue, leaking salty-sweet the closer he gets. And the _taste_ is what the younger of the two is after, what he _craves_. Stephanie tasted slightly sweet and bitter, similar to her nipples; Colin had faintly peppery; his own salty and thick. He _will_ have this intimate knowledge, of the taste of Tim’s pleasure, and hollows his cheeks again, speeds up as he _craves_.

“D-Dami, you-you have to s-s-stooop, I’m going to—ah _fuck me!_ Baby Bat, _please_ , you’ll make me come if you don’t—“

But Damian’s free hand tightens on his thigh, slides up to lay his forearm over Tim’s hips to make sure the older understands: he _must_ have this, he _will_.

“Shit, Shit!” And Tim’s back arches beautifully when he finally comes, his cock throbbing in Dami’s mouth, in his throat, spilling himself inside with a hoarse, keening cry.

And Dami moans as he drinks him down, eyes half-mast, sucking and licking to make certain he takes everything Tim has to offer.

When the body under him finally goes pliant, Damian pulls off, licking his lips, _savoring_. He takes in the trembling muscles, the mindless sprawl, the chest rising with panting breath, and he smiles to himself in the dim, deeply satisfied. With terrifying grace, Dami crawls up Tim’s body, leaning down to press his mouth almost reverently to scars littered along Tim’s torso until he’s lying on his side, facing the older man.

Tim’s dark eyes open, his body beautifully on display in the moonlight—a rare moment in which this man is not trying to covertly _hide_. Damian drinks him in, looking his fill, his own body wound tightly; however, with Tim’s injuries, he would rather calm himself and establish what this, the two of them, may possibly become. He has no taste for single night occurrences, nor does he want to push the older man into something he does not necessarily desire. Rather, he looks his fill, relaxing into the bedding and mattress.

Tim, however, opens his eyes and looks over, his expression lax and somewhat _destroyed_ from his orgasm causing Damian to smirk this time.

“Forgive me,” in a low voice, “I could not help myself.”

The grin and ensuing laugh is perfect for the moment, Tim’s dark eyes sparkling with genuine mirth and affection.

In a flash, the older of the two is up and straddling Damian, leaning down to press their mouths together again, to taste himself still on Dami’s tongue. His hips roll against the prominent erection against his thigh, sighing into the kiss.

“You’re gonna kill me, you know, taking care of me like that.” He breathes, but Damian grips his biceps, making Tim pause from coming in for another kiss.

“You are injured,” in a gentler tone, “do not concern yourself—“

“Stop. Talking.” Tim’s eyebrows draw together, “I’ve been deep in my head about this, Dami. Wondering what it would be like if you ever… _thought_ of me in this way. I—yeah, so _no_ , some injury isn’t going to keep me from taking advantage of your momentary lapse of reason.”

Dami’s eyes blow wide with surprise as Tim leans up, all lithe grace and muscle, already palming the bottle, flipping the cap with his thumb. Slick in his hand, and Damian throws back his head, gasping when Tim works him, gets him _ready_ for—

“I… _ah, Tim!_ I haven’t— _you_ haven’t been prepared properly—“

Damian’s body jerks in reaction to the hand tightening, moving, getting him so _slick_ and _hard_.

“I’m ready, Baby Bat,” Tim’s voice deep and dark with emotions Damian has yet to hear, “I’m _so_ ready for you. Some other night, you can take as much time as you want. Not now.”

And again, he _moves_ , shifting on his knees until he can line them up, rubbing the head of Dami’s cock right against his slightly stretched opening. He misses the expression of surprise and satisfaction on Damian’s face—the promise of _some other night_.

Those broad hands are on Tim’s hips with a desperate hold, Dami gripping him like either Tim might change his mind and stop or Dami might stop this if he thought the injury is too severe. Hell no, Baby Bat, just _hell no_.

“I _need_ this, Dami, I need to _feel_ you in me. I bet you’ll like how tight I am, how _deep_ I can take you.”

“ _Tim_ ,” a warning and plea wrapped up in one word, Dami’s hips already shifting to rub against him, the younger man biting his lower lip as if trying to regain his _control_.

“We’ve got _all night_ , Dami. I can take you _slow_ at first, draw you out,” and his hands move over Damian’s chest, thumb his nipples while his hips move in tandem, let that thick cock slide over his ass. “Make you lose your mind with how _good_ I feel, how _full_ you’re going to make me.” A deep growl as he pinches slightly, “I can feel how much you _want_ this.”

“Yes,” hissed through clenched teeth, “just you, Tim. I want _you_.”

The hands on his hips tighten as he rises up, moves to hold Dami at his base and squeeze lightly, panting himself at the build-up.

“You can _have_ me,” Tim sinks down slowly, so _slowly_ , until the tip breaches him and he shudders slightly, his thighs _tight_ with anticipation and trying to keep it easy. “ **Fuck** , _Dami_ , you can _have me_.”

And Tim just breathes as he sinks down, taking Damian by degrees, the hands on his hips now tighten to the point of _pain_. A fleeting moment of dread claws into the sensuality of it—does Tim mean only for tonight?

A rolling rhythm of Arabic again as all thoughts are pushed away and Damian’s senses overloaded with the incredible feeling enveloping him—tighter than Stephanie, more encompassing than Colin—with Tim’s scent and taste still on the back of his tongue. He has to grit his teeth, to force himself _not_ to thrust to bury himself _completely_. He strains to allow Tim the time needed to adjust when all he desires is to brace his feet and thrust his hips _up_.

With the pink flush on Tim’s face and chest, his eyes half-mast, mouth open in an “o” of pleasure/pain as he takes all Damian has, sinking down until he’s nestled in the cradle of Dami’s hips.

And as if he planned such, Damian’s hand slides up over skin and scars and muscle, his palm and fingers pressing, memorizing, until he’s spanning the side of Tim’s neck, turning his face down slightly.

“You are _exquisite_ ,” his voice is a hoarse growl, thumbs moving over the sharp angle of jawline, “Tim, you will _break_ me like this.”

The quiet snicker, followed by a genuine smile, white in the dim, and Tim cups his hand around Dami’s, turns enough to press a kiss to the palm, a flick of his tongue against the thumb.

“Not _break_ , Baby Bat. Not unless you ask _nicely_.”

And Tim’s hips shift in a circle, Dami moving only marginally inside him, but _still_ —the younger man gasps, the hand on Tim’s hip tightens again, _strains_ to keep still. Tim braces his hands on Dami’s abdomen while he moves, partially to give his body time to adjust since it’s _been a while_ and _fuck Dami is **huge**_ , but to give them both a little time to calm down. He doesn’t want it to be over so soon, he _needs_ this, hadn’t realized how much until Dami threw it out there while they were in the hidden back room of his office:

_“You, Tim. For the last several years, **you**.”_

And, oh _God_. He’d errantly thought of the possibility after Dami started warming up to him, getting older, working better with him. He’d made a promise to himself, to never let Dami or Jay go back down into that forever dark without a _fight_ , without standing in the way, and eventually the two figured it out. They, Damian and Jason, had thrown their lot in with B and Dick to get him back into the family, to make him a part of things—to give him a place back in the Bat ranks when he’d pretty much had one foot out of Gotham, ready to take the final step to be _gone_ (he’d assume that’s what they all _wanted_ , what they needed to happen). Dami’s anger had faded, and their truce had been established in the confines of the mission to slowly spread out into their lives as regular people. They’d never be _brothers_ , but they’d began tolerating each other, complementing one another, and becoming _friends_. Somewhere along the line, it got to the point he could tell Dami anything, and realized the younger man could do the same—even with things he couldn’t tell Bruce or Dick, Tim wouldn’t judge him, wouldn’t lecture or try to help solve everything. He could just listen if that’s what Dami needed.

The possibility of _more_ had been a fleeting fantasy in odd moments, never something come to fruition.

Until tonight.

And now he’s getting hard again with Dami, _Dami_ stretching him, Dami’s hips undulating in the attempt to let him control the pace, his cock so _hard_ inside Tim; it’s Dami sitting up to press their bodies together, their mouths and tongues, hands gripping and searching, seeking more pleasure spots. He swallows his own name groaned against his mouth, moans when hands tangle in his hair to pull him down for deeper and _more_ , grip Dami’s shoulders when he finally _, finally_ rises up using his knees and thighs to start the ride.

He holds Dami’s eyes while he begins to move, groaning when his nerve endings tingle and the discomfort is replaced with something so much _better_. He watches Dami moan low in his chest at each drag out and gasp at push back inside.  And he throws his head back when every drop brushes along his spot, making his cock harden more at the sensations jolting through his body: him, Dami, skin, touch and taste, wants and needs slowly being fulfilled…

He hears the Arabic flowing over them, half his brain translating in pieces, how tight he is, how good he feels, how beautiful he is like this, how long this has been wanted, how he is taking Dami apart piece by piece. And his chest expands with it all, with the pleasure and heat, the warmth and affection, the beginnings of something _deeper_ in those blue, blue eyes watching him ride, watching his body move and _take_.

Because he _can_ , Tim answers him back in Arabic, talking gently against his mouth as he speeds up the pace, muttering how full he is, how _good_ , how much he _needs_ , how erotic Dami is when he’s turned on like this, _pleasured_ , what an honor it is to _have_ this part of the younger man, how the reality doesn’t _touch_ his imagination, how much this trust _means_ to him. How much he _needs_ Dami to _fill him up_ …

Dami gives a groan at the talk, hands coming up around Tim’s shoulders to _grip_ , and his body lunges, taking Tim to his back, kneeling between his thighs and drives _deeper,_ gripping Tim’s hips to hold him at the perfect angle and speed up the pace.

Tim grips Dami’s biceps, laying back to be taken, _owned_ , shuddering under the intensity of Damian’s gaze, of the _deep_ and consistent rhythms, his own cock starting to leak at how _too much_ and _not enough_ it is. But he hazily knows Dami won’t give in and piston into him _hard_ and _rough_ and _fast_ until the injury heals, and just _God the possibilities for when that happens_. His mouth waters, watching the muscles in Dami’s arms and chest, his abdomen flexing while he slides so wetly back and forth. The pressure and pleasure mounting, taking him _higher_.

“Dami—“ he gasps, “Dami, _please_ …!” His legs wrap around, pull closer, his back arches when a particular thrust almost has him coming and just _God, yes…_

Without stopping, Damian leans over him, speeding up slightly, to palm his neck again and shove his noises down Tim’s throat along with his tongue. Those eyes are so full of _heat_ , marking Tim in a way that makes his stomach clench through the sweet, fast glide. His hands grip _tighter_ , his back arching helplessly at the thought of _belonging_ and _possessing_ (the brief flutter of _panic_ and _fear_ of being hurt again should he give himself over is swallowed up by Damian’s touch). At the thought of another night when he can open Dami up, can be the first to show him _this_ pleasure, be the one to turn Dami into a writhing mass of _need_ , to hear him _beg_ to come. He shudders with the image, crying out as the rhythm speeds up, bringing him to _close_ again—

“You are so beautiful when you _come_ , Tim. _Give this to me._ Come while I am inside you, while I _take_ you.”

And a series of rapid thrusts right over _that_ spot _…_ and Dami’s desperate, needy _noises_ , and he can’t hold _back_.

Tim keens when he comes a second time, spilling himself all over them, his whole body taunt with the pleasure exploding through every synapse—and Dami doesn’t _stop_ , just fucks him through it, crying out loud when Tim gets so _tight_ , milks him so _hard_ and it’s too _much_ —he is the one that has made Tim reach the pinnacle of pleasure a _second_ time and it is _everything_ from his fantasies—

The younger man almost _screams_ when his body reaches the finale, a hard thrust so he comes _deep_ , right against that spot again, panting and moaning, collapsing on Tim’s uninjured shoulder as he comes apart at his own orgasm, lucid enough to move his hips just enough for the pleasure reverberate through his whole body.

Tim has enough brainpower to realize his limbs are gripping Dami firmly, feeling the breath and moans against his throat, of Dami’s chest against his stuttering for each panting breath as he comes down slowly. A forearm braces some of his weight off Tim, the other hand gripping the side of his throat to hold Tim’s head still so Dami can be nuzzled against him.

A soft sigh and a sweeping elbow puts Dami’s full weight on him, something so _comforting_ about it—something Tim can analyze later while he keeps gripping the younger man against his body.

Damian seems to finally come back to himself, muttering, “injured—“

“Don’t. Move.” Tim counters, turning his face slightly to rest again Dami’s. His chest expands deeply in a contented sigh when Dami, for once, does as he’s told.

**

Robin meets Batman and Nightwing on the roof of the Wallstone Apartments the next night. He is ready to get his assignment for patrol as the Red Hood is off for the night in recompense for the prior evening.

“Red?” Father asks firsts.

“Nursing an injury. Not serious.” Robin answers calmly.

N’s eyes go wide, “what? How ‘not serious’ is it really, Baby Bat?” They are all aware of Tim’s definition of _not that serious_ is most people’s definition of _life ending_.

“Serious enough that he should not be swinging. He will be assisting Oracle tonight in data collection and direction.”

Batman and N exchange a glance, more effective since the whiteouts aren’t down as of yet.

“Okay, what’s the secret then?” N arches an eyebrow over the domino, arms crossing over the blue insignia spread over his chest and shoulders.

“Secret?” Robin has a moment of dread but not _regret_ ( _touching and kissing under the spray of the shower; placing kisses nape of the neck while he re-wraps the injury; waking up with Tim’s relaxed face right against_ _his chest, their arms draped over one another, warmth and skin; arms around his waist as he makes breakfast for them, bringing Tim coffee the way he knows is preferable; the wide smile hidden behind his coffee cup when Damian gravely explains he has no interest in a purely sexual relationship—he desires **more** ; Tim’s gentle agreement, he also desires something more than sexual gratification—although that is definitely a benefit; the heat in his face when Tim’s eyes go feral and calculating, detailing how he wishes to pleasure Damian more thoroughly after patrol…_).

“How you convinced Red to stay in,” Batman elaborates in his less deep growl.

A litany of things pass quickly, a snarky come-back that Red also slept the agreed upon eight hours, an observation that perhaps making breakfast and coffee should be his duty in the Manor should Red stay over, a sharp smirk with nothing following (and, yes, Grayson would _understand_ ), or simply advising them that Red is now _his_ until further notice. Each is discarded quickly as the family can figure it out _for themselves_ as it is not their concern.

“I simply pointed out the possible detriment further injury would cause. Should he wish to retain use of his arm, the shoulder must have adequate time to heal. Of course, he is also working multiple cases and could use the time to analyze data.” Robin shrugs a shoulder, already looking bored.

B huffs a bit of a laugh at his youngest son, glad to see the two taking care of one another (it’s been a long time coming, this peace between his four sons, and never has Bruce or the Batman been more satisfied with their family dynamic). “Noted. Good strategy. N is going to be down by Dixon. You’re on the Narrows tonight. Take the worst twelve blocks first, check in with O. We’ll rendezvous by one and make our way further back unless we have a situation.  Arkham and Blackgate seem quiet tonight, but—

“—always have a plan.” Robin and N fill in automatically.

B chuff another laugh on principal and pulls his own grapple. “Be safe.”

“You as well,” Robin grips a gauntlet, just for a second, before pulling his own, turns to prepare to fly.

Batman is gone when N turns, a smirk in the street light. “Da-ami,” N sing songs low.

Robin sighs a little and turns back, eyeing his mentor, his big brother. He crosses his arms over the tunic, his uniform altered in the years he’s worn it. He’s maintained the hooded cape, the red and gold ( _Tim’s hands on his chest when the tunic goes on, the R gleaming between them, just another connection, “Be. Careful.” “Tt, that is **my** line, Habibi.” And yes, it was a **strain** to keep himself from **more** , from ‘hobi’ and ‘hayati’ or ‘ana bahabak.’ It is too soon for such things_), Grayson’s aesthetic is not lost in his Robin interpretation, but he has long since made it his own.

“Richard,” he fills in low, keeping this between them, “you and Jason are _fools_.”

N’s blue eye go _wide_ behind the domino. “Dami—“

Robin holds up one gloved hand, “ **no**. You are too late.”

“Too late?” N shakes his head a little, “no, Baby Bat, that’s not what I’m saying here. I just don’t want either of you to…get _hurt_ , okay? He… we didn’t want him to get hurt either and it happened anyway.”

Now Robin goes still, staring.

N’s expression darkens, his body taunt. “He wouldn’t let us talk him out of it. You think we would have given him up _willingly?_ ”

And _oh,_ Robin’s chest expands in a deep breath when the realization hits abruptly. “Richard… _Dick_ —“ because, yes, there is pain below the surface, and now he can _see_ it.  “You _knew_. Both of you knew what he was doing.”

He does not need confirmation, the proof is in the darkening of N’s eyes.

Robin moves, closing in, gripping Nightwing’s wrist needlessly. This man has always been his friend, his mentor, one that would never turn from him. Now that he _understands_ the other motivations, that he can _imagine_ the pain between the three—guilt bites hard and feral.

“Give me _time_ ,” he claims in a low tone, “perhaps…he would be receptive to an… _understanding_. A collaboration of sorts.”

N laughs, a sound without humor, and leans in, still slightly taller than the youngest, “hey, Dami, it’s _okay_ , like I said, I don’t want either of you to get _hurt_ —“

“While you and Jason are in pain?” Robin counters. “Richard, we are _not_ a…” he waves his free hand, trying to find the words, something to make this _right_ “…a _conventional_ family. We are bonded closer than that. It is the way of our lives. And perhaps…we could make the _attempt_. If not to make everything _right_ , then to satisfy all of us.”

“I— _Dami_ , I don’t _know_ if we could—“

“That is why we will give it time and consideration. Not exceptionally long. You will speak to Jason. I will speak to Tim after a few weeks, longer if necessary. We shall see what progresses. However,” Robin grips the wrist tighter, his eyes darken in the night, “our lives are dangerous, Dick. I have learned that we must take what happiness we are able to grasp while we _can_. If this is what we must do to make that happen, then why not at least give it a _chance_?”

Nightwing opens his mouth as if he is going to say _something_ but seems to reconsider. For long moments, the two stand on the rooftop, looking at one another, pensive on the possibilities presented.

“I can’t promise anything, Dami, but…I’ll talk to Jay. We’ll think about it.”

Robin nods gently, “we shall do the same. I—cannot promise, Tim was—” He hesitates as these are not his secrets to share.

“Tell me,” N demands low, his tone hinging on painful.

“He was not… _fine_ …for some time. He told me he has come to _accept_ things he is unable to change.”

A deep sigh lifts N’s chest while the two stare back at one another, the years, the bonds between them.

“Thanks for telling me. We’ll…see what happens.”

“Agreed.” He finally releases N’s wrist, takes a step back, and together, the two vigilantes stride to the edge of the roof. Patrol will be completed with many things to consider.

And when the night is done, when the city settles into the fog, while dawn is still a few hours away, Robin tells Batman he will be staying in the city against tonight, his slight bumps and bruises will be tended. He will return to the Manor tomorrow afternoon to complete his reports, waving his two partners to the Batmobile to return home for the night.

Rather, he is greeted to the cracked window of Red’s perch, stepping into the shadows silently. The system screen is darker with analysis surely running in the background as the main room is empty. He strips the gauntlets and gloves as he walks down the dimly lit hallway, moving with deadly grace into the doorway of Red’s bedroom... and his breath catches.

Bare and laid out for him, those dark blue eyes lighten when Tim smiles, holds out a hand from the bed, and the previous conversation with N flies out of his mind for this, _this_ intimacy that is _his_ and _his_ alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I didn't see a possible Robin pile come out of this ending but something really crazy is how to address the DickTimJay ending so Dami could take advantage of the situation and have something more than just a sexual experience. I dunno, the idea kind of intrigues me, so I might do something with it eventually. But, now that the move is OVER (thank FUCK), I can actually get started on the next chapters of Fracture and Forward Momentum before I burst a blood vessle. Comments and kudos are appreciated and whatnot.


	18. No Home for Dead Birds III, IV, and V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> III: "Don't look, Don't look! the shadows breathe."  
> IV: "You know who this is."  
>  "Beep."  
> Drabble: If Kon hadn't been listening at that exact moment-  
> V: And he laughs again just as the explosion behind them lights up the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of my peeps on Tumblr asked for more of this iteration in the Fracture Verse. It's not very happy, so please be forewarned. Those familiar with Fracture or Destoryed will understand the reference in Part III and V.

# 3

The city is unbearable without white noise.

_(Don’t look, don’t look, the shadows **breathe** …)_

Even with the windows closed, locked, secured—he can hear the constant pollution of people outside. Cars, trains, honking, screaming, crashing, fighting, fucking, and it’s so painfully like the ‘Haven, like when he used to visit  _Dick_ , like when he moved out of Gotham and went out at night just to bleed so he  _knew_ he wasn’t the one really  _dead_  living in some kind of third ring. So, when the similarities get too  _close_ , he plays the news; he plays tech shows; he plays reality TV; he plays terrible tragicomedies. He changes it up for black and white films, old Westerns Dad used to like ( _“ **The Sons of Katie Elder** , Timmy, that’s almost as good as  **The Quiet Man**. But for just a half-hour, we used to watch **The Rifleman**.”_ ).

He lets it wash over him without focusing on it, without really  _hearing_. At the drawing table (one of the few pieces of furniture in the place other than an ancient couch, the small television and stand, a hardly-used bed, and mostly empty dresser), his hands move to make schematics. He starts with tech, things for communication, things for protection, things for offense, things to throw, things to drop, things to stick for later, things to make him  _want_  to fly again.

A month goes by when he feels like the city might be suffocating in its own mire, and half-assed drawings of animal logos take some sort of shape since his fingers dither around anyway. The edges start out sharp like the shuriken R and round out like the harness symbol he couldn’t keep ( _Not. Yours. Asshole_.). The two merge in a frighteningly similar style of the Bat symbol on Bruce’s chest before that suit opened to let the real Batman spill out; he crumples the thick blueprint page in sore, taped fingers and sets it on fire in the bathtub for his sanity.

During that month, the cell phone he kept ( _Robin’s. Fuck, throw that shit_ ) lights up too much. In separating his emotions and intellect, he knows Bruce did the right thing because of what was  _necessary_  at the time—having a Robin made keeping Gotham in check more  _efficient._  Considering the whole lot of bad between Bruce and Dick at the end of his career and the following death of Jason Todd ( _‘Pretender…’_ ), he sees the validity in Batman taking on a Robin with no ties—of keeping the next kid in line in a dedicated space outside the realm of family but inside the boundaries of  _obligatory_. The Venn diagrams make a strange sort of on blueprint paper than on stock white 8.5x11; makes the whole things seem like an intelligent engineering choice rather than another sword to the spleen.

_(Every night I fall again)_

He understands the motivations behind it. Dick was the Robin that only got  _part_ of Batman’s rationales ( _the first, practically **blood** , the first chosen one…)_; he stayed because of loyalty, not necessarily because he wanted to take on the same characteristics. Jason was only Robin for a few years; he was too young to get it by the time he was murdered. He was too impulsive, too violent to take the  _time_  to plot out the long lines of logic and reasoning, to map out the contingencies spreading like bloodroot in darkness.

_(Don’t talk of world’s that never were / The end is all that’s ever true)_

The Dark Knight started making a twisted sort of sense when he was still an idiot with a camera, trying not to break his neck on fire escapes all over the city. It’s why he finally decided to show himself—to  _fight_  against the downward spiral before the Bat got himself or someone else killed.

It was never his intention to take the cape.

It was never his  _intention_  to become part of their world, an integral piece in a larger puzzle.

The decision to save Nightwing and the Batman from Two-Face changed _everything_.

If he was  _better_ , he would have left it at that and  _run_ , left their world to  _them_ without forcing himself inside. But just being there,  _fighting_  made him  _want—_

_(Just paint your face in shadow’s smile)_

Everything. He wanted  _everything_  in their world. He wanted to be  _part_  of it, to join in the legacy.

When the Obeah Man killed mom during the Fire Ceremony, sacrificing her like an animal—he understood Dick, understood  _why_.

It’s 1:38 am.

The moonlight is dirty, tainted with the fog around the city.

The blueprint paper under his hand is smudged again, white scuffs instead of neat lines.

A soft vibration rumbles through the table, and he assumes it’s the phone dying again (he should just  _stop_  putting it on the charger), but the screen flashes with impossible things.  _38 messages_ ,  _21 voicemails, 64 missed calls_.

Like it has countless times in the last month, his free hand has an automatic reaction—some muscle memory—to reach; it’s a pang that makes him jerk back, to shy away enough that he throws himself out of the chair and backs up fast. The wall is just right there at his back, broad and textured with the stain of humanity, all the previous tenants.  His heart is beating too fast, hands shaky, twitchy because—

The .45 is heavier than the last time, when he picked it up from beside Dad’s unmoving hand (Batman didn’t speak, didn’t  _deny_  him this) and held it close.

His hand was shaking then too.

He blinks hard when the phone screen goes dark again, and he moves silently back to the drawing table, can take up the seat and scoot himself back in.

_(There’s nothing you can ever say / Nothing you can ever do)_

The drawing on the blueprint is done, the outline of a crow—smudged and imperfect in the dirty brown moonlight. With his free hand, he moves the blueprint away to the keep pile and stares down at the empty desk.

Drake Industries is taken care of.

Dana is alive and living in New York. She’s dating again—she’s moved  _on_.

Nightwing works with Batman and Robin, moving like they always  _should_  have been together. Gotham has always been soaked in the  _what ifs_ of the criminal population—the change has been nothing short of perfect (like years ago when Dick started out as Robin and the city started to  _change_  for the better).

The Red Hood has been spotted with the Outlaws.

The Titans took down The Light themselves without JLA intervention.

Next week, a demolition crew will arrive at the Drake estate—and burn the house to the ground.

Everything is good.

Everything is  _fine_.

The To-Do list is empty for the first time in  _years_.

_(So slide back down and close your eyes/sleep a while, you must be tired…)_

And  _click_  as the barrel slides closed over the empty chamber. From the drawer under the drawing table, the clip is light, only  _one_  nestled down.

It’s fine, only need  _one_. No contingency necessary.

_(Dream the crow black dream…)_

Dad would be angry…Mom, she might understand. Who knew?

And he sits  _back_  in the squeaky chair with the weight on his thigh, forefinger laying on the barrel, on the trigger guard—his constantly moving brain is mercifully  _silent_  when the hand and forearm find the strength. The niche at his temple is perfect, so disturbingly similar to the time before this, back when his future self has chosen guns over  _thou shall not kill_. The future is going to change anyway, isn’t it? Because—

he’s just as dedicated now as then, just for different reasons  _(stop being a burden, a fucking **meatbag** , right?)_

The safety is a flick, his thumbs knows the shape of the metal pad like it knows a batarang, a grapple, a smoke pellet, and  _God_ , he can finally fucking  _smile_. More than a year, since before death followed him, striking everyone, always leaving him the  _last one standing_ …

He can fucking  _smile_.

Finger inside the trigger guard, and the  _weight_  on his chest, his shoulders, finally starts to  _ease_  just a little. So maybe this is how it always should have gone—

( _Never should have been Jay on the end of that crowbar—should have been me first, the stand-in between the real sons)_

_(God, Bruce why didn’t you explain it? I would have **understood** , no one would have had to get  **hurt** )_

But no one did. No one but him.

It’s all okay, it’s going to be  _okay_  now.

Fuck, eyes are heavy and blurry and it shouldn’t—

The middle joint touches the trigger and starts to tighten.

_Feels so **right**_ **.**

And—

The wall crumbles like a wrecking ball went through it, opening up the stagnant apartment—filling it  _up_  with the world outside and, Kon,  _Kon_.

He’s floating just a few inches over the floor, both hands out, eyes so wide, he can see the whites surrounding the ring of blue. Superboy, the shield t-shirt on, but the  _face_  is all Conner, a twist of confusion and fear—not the brash optimism.

_Who are you?_

“Tim,” and the name sounds so strange, “ _Tim_.”

His shouldn’t doesn’t unlock, elbow at a precise angle, but he blinks just once, mouth open, no sound coming out. He hasn’t spoken in—

“Tim, man, I—“ Kon swallows hard, floating just a little closer, hands still out like he’s trying to catch something, “I need you to put the gun down.”

But he isn’t moving, just staring because this has to be something cooked up by his unconsciousness—to make him reconsider, to show there might be _something_  left. The hollow, empty spans of shadows keeps pulling, clawing, and he blinks again, finger tightening.

“Please, Tim,  _put the gun **down**_.”

His mouth opens again, but this time the words, even hoarse and wavery from silence, come up from the depth of his chest to spill out on the dirty, broken floor between them, “all you need to do is turn around, and pretend you were never here.”

Because it’s  _time_  and he doesn’t want Kon,  _Kon of all people_ , to see this.

The meta chokes, his face twisting with some kind of  _sick_  realization about what’s happened here.

“You can’t,” comes out fast, babbled, “N.O.W.H.E.R.E—uh, we’ve got to fight them and Cassie doesn’t think we can  _win_. We need a strategist if we’re going to stand a chance. We—we can’t. Tim,  _you_  can’t—“

“You need…to gonow.” Because the JLA would help. The JLA would know what to do, and Batman and Robin would be there to make  _plans_  and it would be  _better_ —

“Bart, Tim. They have  _Bart_.”

 _Blink_.

“Bart?”

“Yes! Yes, they have Bart. He’s…Tim, he’s—  _please_ ,  _please don’t do this_ ,” and now Kon’s voice is wavering too, the meta’s check hitching with a sheen over his eyes. “ _Fuck_ ,  _please_. You’re my  _best friend_ , I can’t  _lose_  you. Please,” Kon drops to his knees, staring up, “fucking  _please_ , give it to me.”

 _Blink_ , and his hand is shaking a little, the barrel trembling slightly where it’s pressed into the side of his skull. He stares down helplessly.

“Tim,  _give me the gun_.”

 _Breathe_.

“Give me the gun and  _help us_. Tim,  _Tim!_   _Come back! **Come back**_!”

_(Every night I burn / Waiting for the world to end)._

 

# 4

_“You know who this is.”_

_Beep_.

He clears his throat a little, “It’s me. I miss you. I’m…I’m  _sorry_  things happened the way they did. I hope…I hope you’re  _okay_ doing whatever you need to do. I  _hope_ you’re finding what you need. Just… _call me_  when you can, okay?”

**

 _“You know who this is_. _”_

_Beep._

It’s been a hard night, fighting with himself, with the criminal elements, with Robin, with  _everything_. What he wouldn’t give to have—

“Hey. It’s been… a while. I miss you. I hope you’re okay. I’d be  _better_  if you’d call, just for a second. Not because I’m trying to intrude, but because I…I miss your voice. I miss talking to you.”

**

_“You know who this is.”_

_Beep_.

He’s weak, tired—the strain evident even with the cowl  _on_. “I think…I think I was right in the first place,” is hoarse, coming from a throat that had been punched already, “I think it should have been  _you_ wearing this all along. Just,  _God_ , please, _please_  call me. Just…just  _talk to me_  so I know I’m not crazy.”

**

_“You know who this is.”_

_Beep_.

Fingers move over the keyboard in a flurry, trying to catch up with data, but the system still dialed the number, his voice doesn’t have the same echo in the Bunker as it did in the Cave, “he’s getting  _better_. I know how that sounds, but you aren’t here to see it. Well, maybe you’ve got footage or something, but—I’m proud of how he’s done the last few nights. He’s really stood up. I…I didn’t call to  _hurt_  you with this, but I want you to  _know_  I still think this is the right thing to do, okay? I hope you call me soon.”

**

_“You know who this is.”_

_Beep_.

It’s been too long and the fear that maybe, _maybe_ —

Quietly, “I can’t lose anyone else. I…I need you to remember that wherever you are. You have to be careful, don’t die.” The laughter bubbles up abruptly, just an edge of  _hysterics_ , “we’ve been telling you that from day one haven’t we? ‘Don’t be like Jason, don’t  _die_.’ You must be sick of hearing it, but…I—I  _need_ you to keep it in mind, okay? Just, fuck, please,  _please_ don’t  _die_.”

**

_“You know who this is.”_

_Beep_.

Pacing back and forth in the Batsuit while the real thing is just suddenly right on the floor in the middle of the Cave, alive and whole and  _alive_. His thoughts are a tangled mire because he didn’t  _believe_. “Come  _back_. Right now. Why did you  _leave_? Come back, Tim. Come  _back_. Just, _fucking dammit_. Pick up the  _phone_  and _talk to me_.”

Damian is staring at him while Alfred hugs Bruce so tight.

**

_“You know who this is.”_

_Beep_.

Now he’s calling every day while running all the tracing software he can get his hands on. Flight out the night he stopped Ra’s and brought Bruce back from the future. Tracking has lead to a dead end. Too much distance on foot, and no purchases, no utilities, no tech presence, no sign of him in Titan’s Tower, no uses of his pseuds. He’s in the wind somewhere.

“I’m worried you’re more than angry with me. I…I didn’t mean you had to leave the family. That was  _never_  the reason, Tim. It’s not why I made Damian Robin. Please, tell me you  _know_  that.” And the horrible pressure in his chest, the one compounding with each message left unanswered— “Tim, you came to me at Haley’s Circus. We’ve been  _family_  ever since. You  _belong here_. You belong with me and Bruce and Babs and Dami and…and  _please_  just give me  _something_  so I know you’re okay. Anything, Tim—“

**

_The mailbox is currently full. Please try your call again later._

_Click_.

He stares at his phone, back in Nightwing blue.

Robin is suddenly standing too close on the rooftop while Batman watches the dealer across the street.

“You are obviously…disturbed,” the kid observers, “it still bothers you?”

“You know it does,” and  _fuck_  his voice sounds tired, empty.

Robin nods a little while Batman pretends he isn’t listening in. “I…would not have been able to understand even a few months ago. However, I believe I do  _now_.”

He turns to look at the kid with, knowing his expression is more obvious with a domino than a cowl. “Do you?”

Robin nods gently, “you have spent an obscene amount of time trying to teach me to think like criminals to predict their movements. Their perspective. Should I do the same with  _him_  or with you, then yes. I am able to understand why he does not call back and why you are desperate to see him again.”

A shift in the shadows is Batman turning his head slightly toward them at his back. He doesn’t say anything about paying attention to the current stakeout.

**

_The mailbox is currently full. Please try your call again later._

_Click_.

The chatter at the stationhouse is a peripheral.

Last night, Cassie Sandsmark called him, looking for Tim. She sounded worried. Conner Kent sounded more worried.

He buries his face in his hands.

**

_This number has been disconnected. Please check the number and dial again._

He blinks, startled, and a very real fear takes root.

# Drabble

Kon—Superboy—is still very much an _optimist_  when it comes to most things. Since his “birth,” he has come to accept certain, reliable truths:

Superheroes throw the most  _banging_ parties (natch)

Algebra will always  _blow_  (sad but true)

Girls are just—wow, fantastic (and boys aren’t so bad either)

Bart really can eat more than Barry (they’ve tested it—twice)

And Robin, ah,  _Tim_ , could seriously take a beating and keep coming back for more

These  _truths_  make him feel more stable, more part of the world around him. He takes them as  _rote_. So maybe, when they left Tim at the Perch, he should have been a little less  _sure_  and been more  _attentive_. It’s not until they’re hour five in trying to locate where N.O.W.H.E.R.E took Bart and figure out why he couldn’t trace the guy by his heartbeat when Gar and Cassie, trying to keep his panicking ass  _calm_ , thinks maybe calling Tim in would be a good idea.

Now  _that_ heartbeat he can hone in on (even though he’d already pretty much refused Dick Grayson’s request to do the same—twice already, dude, seriously,  _no_ , take the hint) and sighs a little when he hears it—a steadily beating staccato.

If he was anyone  _else_ , he would have just said,  _sweet,_  and made yet  _another_  phone call and text attempt (only doing it  _super speed_  and  _not stopping until you answer this time, asshole_ ). Since he’s Superboy, well, the very minute sound right next to that heartbeat has his immediate attention. A metallic  _click_.

It’s a sound he  _knows_ , a sound he’s  _faced down_  and  _fucking laughed right at_. What makes  _this_  particular instance raise his instincts: the sound is inches from Tim’s heartbeat. Even if he was trying to do the vigilante  _scary guy_  thing, no nutjob with a gun would be able to get  _that close_  to the former Robin.

Cassie sees something terrible on his face, sees  _fear_  before he’s  _out_  at the speed of light, closing his eyes while he flies so he can trace the sound over the meaty thud of his own pulse picking up.

And since he’s too into  _what the fuck is going on_ , he gives  _no shits_  about taking out a wall. Really, no big deal, right?

Of all the scenarios he could have imagined (like Tim starting down that road to be like his future, Batman, gun-toting, scary guy self),  _this_  is not at all what he had in mind.

Bile inches up, making him come close to hurling when he  _sees_  and  _realizes_  what almost, could  _still_  happen here. Too many things are coming together in a very fucking scary kind of way.

The shine on the big gun in Tim’s steady hand is just—

Tim wouldn’t be doing this to himself (mind control?), but the guy’s looking at him through the hole in the wall with the same calm, cool look as Robin used to.

Superboy’s fingers twitch on his comm, opening up the line.

“Tim,” and his voice is shaky, “ _Tim_.”

With his hearing, he  _knows_  the line is open in the Tower, everyone together for when they  _do_  find Bart, they can get  _on that shit_. But right here in front of him is something immediate. Kon has never known Tim to back the fuck  _down_.

“Tim, man—“ his hand is shaking when he reaches out, floating in so he’s standing on the battered floor of this shitty apartment in some God-forsaken city. Somewhere not Gotham or San Fran.

“I need you to put the gun  _down_.”

And he hears Cassie gasp over the line, Gar stutter out, “what the  _fuck_  did he _say_?”

Kon’s sees Tim’s hand tighten minutely on the hilt, his thoughts a mess, racing while he tries to  _out-think_  this:

He didn’t heal.

I never should have fucking left him.

I’m going to kick Dick Grayson’s ass. To  **Mars** , you fucker.

I can make it to get the bullet if I have to—probably? Fuck, can I though? Fuck, **Fuck** , I don’t  **know** , I can’t bet his  **life**  on it.

Tim’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t turn calculating like when he’s planning something  _else_  or he has another contingency. Nope, Kon’s best friend is carrying out the plan he’s  _got_.

Fear forces him to speak, “Please, Tim, _put the gun **down**_.”

And he expects Tim to snap to, like the Robin he used to be. You know, when he knew he was being a fucking  _prick_  about shit. He’d  _realize_  what he’s doing, drop the damn—

“All you need to do is turn around and pretend you were never here.”

Kon jerks back, something in his chest _burning_ ,  _aching_. He comes to a  _sick_ realization, one that makes his eyes  _hot_ and his vision wavy because if he  _hadn’t been listening at this exact moment_ — and still, Tim is pretty fucking set on pulling the trigger.

The comm starts up with Cassie, “ _Goddess_ , Superboy, you can’t let him. Can you  _stop him_?”

In the Tower, she’s still working their main computer, the program Tim developed last year searching out all signs of N.O.W.H.E.R.E’s activity; most of her attention, however, is on the open comm line echoing in the control room.

Raven and Gar are standing close, Raven so  _emotional_ , her aura is practically vibrating. Gar looks grim, eyes toward the ceiling while he listens.

Green eyes widen a little at the idea, “Blue! Tell him we  _need_  his help! Tell him we need his help to find Bart. That’ll give us time to at  _least_  get him back here.”

Blinking, Kon’s mouth starts running slightly before his brain catches up, “Y—You  _can’t_ , N.O.W.H.E.R.E—uh, we’ve got fight them—“ he just starts throwing in whatever he thinks will affect Tim enough to lower the weapon.

“You need…to  _go_  now.”

Desperately, he inserts, “Bart, Tim. They have  _Bart_.”

Cassie’s face crumples a little as she listens, trying to keep herself strong but the broken voice of her former teammate, boyfriend, best friend and she’s ready to jump out the window and fly there as well because she  _cannot_  lose two of them, she _cannot_  lose anyone  _else_.

Kon’s voice over the line: “it’s been  _five hours_ , Tim.  _Five_. You know what they could be doing.”

Cassie’s eyes slide to Gar’s and they wait.

 

# 5

_Counting bodies like sheep…to the rhythm of the war drums_

The pain is a searing thing, a  _living_  thing. Every cell in his body  _arches_ , trying to get _away_.

There isn’t a time in his life when he can remember being  _trapped_ , unable to  _run_ , to _escape_.

He’s gone beyond terrified. Beyond horrified.

Hope, a fragile thing, dwindling to a dying ember. 

“They can’t find you here.”

“We’ll find out your secrets before you die.”

“Subject 8964.71A—full body scan complete. Dissection beginning.”

“Start recording.”

“Laser scalpel.”

“Get the bio-containers ready. I want these samples preserved as fresh as possible.”

“Heart rate dropping.”

“Get the paddles. We need to keep him alive long enough to get more.”

“Suction! I need to see what I’m doing here.”

“Someone adjust the gag. I can hear him.”

_Whirrllllll_

Eyes wide, every cell on  _fire_  with  _agony_ , his screams are muffled, tears falling onto the metal table under him. The force fields that keep him from being able to  _move_ fast enough, to vibrate out of the restraints, to make them  _stop_  the ripping, tearing, cutting into his viscera and raw meat, to wipe away his blood like it’s _poison_ —

“Dammit, I need another pair of forceps.”

 _Go back to sleep…Go back to sleep_ …

There’s only one kind of sleep for him after this—the permanent one.

And fuck,  _he already died once_.

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

Sounds eek into his consciousness.

Screaming.

People are screaming.

Or is that just him again…?

Eyes flutter, bright, white, hurts his eyes and his head and it was more warm and soothing the first time he let go—

“I’m going to  _fucking kill someone_.”

 _Blue?_   _No, hallucinating. Hit the pain threshold._

“Guard the door. I need to crack this force field.”

“Oh my  _God_ … _Bart?_  Bart?! Is he…?”

“He’s alive.  _Go. Guard. The. Door_.”

“Bart…”

“ ** _Now_**.”

Too much, too much—

_Fizzle, caaarrraaack_

And through his battered, broken body—strength pours in. His hands can almost clench. His knee can bend slightly. His muscles, his abdomen, his vital organs, blood and tissue.

“W—Wh-What can you do?”

“I have to sew him up, try to fix the damage before he’s stable to move.” Clinical, precise. “Call the others, let them know we’ve found him. Tell them—don’t hold  _back_. Got it?”

“You  _fucking bet_  I’m telling them.”

And the needle is sliding through his intestines and his throat hurts too much from the hours of screaming. He can’t be dead yet, not with this much searing pain. He can’t be dead, he  _can’t_  be… _can he?_

 _I haven’ always done the right thing, the **best**  thing, but I  **tried** , so help me God, I **tried**_.

“Please,” he manages to rasp against the gag.

The wavy light overhead gets dark, a shadow covering up the light and—

_Demon_

“You need to stay calm, Bart. I’m almost done, then we’re getting you the hell out of here. As is, your metabolism is speeding up your healing now that the force field has been deactivated. Just  _stay with me_.”

The thick terrycloth is wrenched abruptly out of his mouth, “R-R…” hoarse and hardly recognizable as language.

“I’m not that guy anymore, okay? But yeah, it’s me. I have to keep you in restraints so I can do this, but we’re here. Just stay still for another four minutes, thirty-eight seconds.”

He tries to speak again, but—nothing is coming out, nothing but weak sobs, tears still leaking down his face because it  _can’t_ be. He  _left the Titans_ , he isn’t  _coming back_ , this is a hallucination to help him deal with the  _pain_.

 _Click_.

Bare hands without gloves, arm under his shoulder, under his knee. He’s laying against a shoulder, his face pressed into a neck—one that should smell like Kevlar and whatever crap used to make those smoke pellets.

Insanely, he starts laughing when movement starts, long strides making the crazy whorls of light jump and dance around him because his  _fucking brain_ doing this  _shit_  to him, giving him this to keep him from going crazy in his last lucid minutes before—

It’s all over again.

_I’m sorry Barry—I couldn’t **be**  what you  **needed**._

_Wally, Wally please keep moving—please don’t **stop**_

_Connor, I’m sorry I never told you how much your friendship, how much **you** mean, fuck being a clone, you’re  **you**_

_Tim…never should have let you leave you stupid fucker_

_I’ll never get to have—_

“Take him. I’ve got a surprise to leave.”

“What the fuck are you—?”

“Do it. Get him to Raven on the plane.”

His body is jostled, causing a cry to be wrenched from his damaged throat, but different arms, different neck, and weightlessness of flying…

“Hold on, B. Hold  _on_ , man. I’m right here. _I’m right fucking here, okay?_ ”

“N—No…not…ha-hallucinat…can’t be…can’t find me….here.”

“We found you,” and that is Kon’s voice in his hair, close to his ear because the wind is rushing by them and it’s so  _loud_. “Bart, we found you, man. I’ve  _got you_.”

And he laughs again just as the explosion behind them lights up the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this little thing grew some fucking TEETH, right? I don't know where it came from, maybe I'm in a crazy headspace because of the move and such, but it helped me feel better since I was too busy and exhausted to write, like, a full chapter or whatnot. I hope it was a distraction for you too.  
> Ah, also, Titans is going to kill me because I keep trailing off with the possibility that Tim Drake dies. Heh, always have to wonder, right? As always, thanks for giving me a chance ;)


	19. No Home for Dead Birds 6 and 6.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying very, very hard to get the next chapter for Fracture written. The muse is not being kind :/

# 6

_I don’t need you to save me_

_I don’t need you to cure me_

The night is a vortex, eating the streetlight with feral _intent_.

On the ledge, he leaves a blood stain, proof he’s _alive_.

_I don’t need your antidote for I am my disease_.

Running. Leaping. Snarling. Fists are sore inside the gloves, knuckles bruised and old cuts bandaged with the scabs tearing off under the onslaught.

He _is_ a shadow, staying off camera, adapting a dark suit in the colors of despair.

_I don’t need you to free me_  
_I don’t need you to help me_

Trying to change was a useless endeavor. Too many things are in his blood now, too many things he can’t just leave _behind_. It’s fine. He’s been the one left standing enough times to _adapt_.

_I don’t need you to lead me through the light_

It’s becoming _rote_ again, put on the suit, strafe out the window, take to the rooftops, _fight_. Keep fighting. Keep moving. Can’t stop. It’s not in him to stop—momentary lapses in judgement notwithstanding.

_‘Cause I am a survivor_

_I am a fighter_

And this city _breathes_ around him, battered and beaten, broken with glass shards sharp in the creases of sidewalks and brick. No gargoyles, not many places to _hide_ , it’s a city with a _need_ , a city floundering in darkness and fear.

He can relate.

_I will fall and rise above  
And in your hate I find love_

In the whispers, in the cells where the evil rest their heads, he has a name to them because no one on the outside _believes_. He doesn’t use the same tactics, doesn’t use the same tools or the old trade. He’s had to bring something new to the table, and it gets him more thrashed by dawn but the pain is a constant companion anyway. No way to change it—a life lesson on what sacrifice gets you, but still, here he is, clinging to the fire escape, waiting for the right moment to jump.

_I will not fall from grace_  
I'll walk into the fire, baby  
He’s fielded enough searches, ducked his head at the right moments to avoid the inevitable. It’s necessary.

He doesn’t plan on staying here forever anyway. It’ll be time to move on soon, move to the next city, the next sections of darkness where the light struggles to thrive. The light has to have a chance and if nothing else, he can give it that.

_All my life_  
I was afraid to die  
And now I come alive inside these flames  
He leaves them bruised and bloody, crouching a few feet away from their victim. She’s shaking, mascara smeared from crying. Slowly, he picks up her discarded phone, dials 911 and hits “Send” before tossing it at her. Her shirt it torn but he made it in time to stop the terrible. It’s worth the swollen knee and pain in his kidney.

The operator is asking for the nature of the emergency by the time he’s made a half-assed leap to the fire escape and starts the climb up to join the starts glittering in the night.

**

In less than a month, he’s on a greyhound, staring out into the passing scenery, his hoodie pulled around him like a shield. By now, Dick Grayson may already be in the hole-in-the-wall he’d been “living in” to search for clues or some immutable proof Tim Drake is alive.  It’s a practice in futility. Choices have been made and sometimes there isn’t a way to go _back_.

_You don't want me to love you_  
You don't want me to need you  
You don't want to look at me for you will turn to stone

The screen of his phone lights up his features in stark, cutting lines while he idly skims the articles in between watching the night: Wayne Enterprises updates (the return of Bruce Wayne as CEO—a blurb wondering what happened to the rising young mogul, not enough to be concerning), the Justice League’s latest newsworthy fights (on world escalations on the East Coast from one of the supervillain groups that just _suddenly_ had issues—Brainiac is such a douche, seriously, but his coding is so pathetically _simple_ to break), the Titans taking on several new members (BB and Cassie are _smiling_ with the guy named Bunker—it’s good they can still move too), and the criminal population in Gotham seeming to move _out_ rather than _in_ thanks to the efforts of her vigilantes.

Even through Chevell’s _Forfeit_ ( _I want to fight, I want to **fight**_ ), he hears the chuffing across the aisle, only his eyes sliding over—and meets the endless blue staring at him from under a battered hat pulled low.   The stranger doesn’t bother to hide his intense scrutiny when he turns his head to meet that gaze head on, the music blaring in one ear.

_I don’t need you to free me_

_I don’t need you to help me_

Gentle vibrations of the bus rolling along, sounds of snoring and sighs with sleep, the two hold gazes as if the distances is _miles_.

“Running away, ain’t cha, kid?” Matches Malone observes in a low, rolling bass—one that is reminiscent, that rolls up his spine and triggers his synapsis to fire up, to try for those old, broken links. “I seen the like.”

He blinks once, fist suddenly clenched by his side, pulling at the cuts and bruises.

The shoddy coat moves more than the man when he sits up, leans closer like he’s ready to tell the secrets of the universe. “Why don’t cha just go _home_? Gotta be someone waiting on you.”

_I don’t need you to lead me through the light_

And in those eyes, he sees below the surface, like he’s always been able to. Even back in the days before he _earned_ the _right_ to call himself one of them. But nothing in those eyes changes a damn thing, does it? Choices are already _made_.

“No one is waiting on me,” he finally replies in a voice that sounds rusty and half hoarse from lack of use.

_‘Cause I am a survivor_

_I am a fighter_

The persona slips for just a heartbeat, could have been imagined really.

“Don’t believe that for a second.” And Matches leans just that much closer, “a kid like you? You gots a place somewhere.”

And in his mind’s eyes, he sees the old house go up in flames, the supports finally giving way under his childhood room to put the whole thing on the ground, out of its misery. The finale on endlessly silent rooms, artifacts long donated to museums, his old footsteps ashes and soot to be blown away, the memory of his life to whirl somewhere in the stratosphere.

And like Jason said, he finally knows where his place I at—he _gets it_. So the sad laughter bubbling up from his chest is just no surprise, but the next sentence really isn’t either. “I don’t. Probably never did. It’s my own fault.”

_I will fall and rise above  
And in your hate I find love_

And Matches pauses, assessing those words with a downturn of his mouth pulling the haze of stubble across his cheeks. This time, the fist clenching from under the coat sleeve is the move from another person, another _life_.

“T— _Kid_ —”

“It’s fine,” he sounds less like ground glass. “I understand now, so it’s okay.”

“Maybe… maybe you oughta make _sure_ , ya know? Shit happens in families alla time.”

“I don’t have any family,” he cuts _that_ thought off. “Like I said, no one is waiting for me.” He turns back to the window, to the _night_ , and it soothes, whispers, conceals.

“Still think yer wrong,” and the voice is less Matches now, more someone _else_ that used to—

He says nothing in return, not until the next stop when the bus finally rolls to a stop and the driver gets out to stretch his legs. Matches Malone stands in his ratty coat and dirty blue pants.  He looks down at the young man staring out the window, who doesn’t bother to look over.

“Whatever it is they did ta ya, it ain’t worth this,” he says softly, aware of the other riders starting to wake up with the promise of a stop during the trip. “Whatever they did, they might be sorry, might wanta tell ya ta ya face. Maybe they want yous back.”

And the charade is tiresome, irritating because _Jason_ is the only one that had the fucking balls to tell it like it _is_. “I served my purpose,” and maybe it’s more bitter than he intends.

The heat of those eyes still doesn’t make him turn, but he spots the gleam of a car through the night, parked back away from the lights of the depot. Someone is leaning against the rear quarter panel, arms crossed over his chest, and dark hair in a snarling mess. The previous theory at the start of the trip was incorrect.

“You could come with me,” drifts over his hunched shoulders, the game apparently at an end. “You can get your things and walk off this bus right now.” It’s Bruce’s voice now, his clipped, high society Gotham speech, “Your room is waiting for you at home when you want it—“

Dick is looking at the bus through the night, straightening.

“There’s no home for dead birds,” he replies quietly, slouching deeper in his seat. “Nice talking to you, but you should go. Someone’s here for you.”

A beat of silence, of the man behind him thinking, reasoning, rationalizing, trying to put things together from the bits of conversation, “I want you _back_. So does he.”

And finally Tim Drake turns in his seat, eyes bleary with lack of sleep, “you never had me.” Painful but true because he was never _chosen_ was he?

Under the skin of Matches, Bruce flinches, breathes, his eyes widen at the sincerity, the _certainty_. And even if his instincts scream against it, he turns away, turns to _leave_.

The bus starts up again, the driver still sipping on a cup of hot coffee, and the thing lumbers out in a rolling rhythm to delve deeper into the night.

With hope faded at the lone passenger disembarking, Dick closes his eyes and lowers his head in defeat.

 

 

# 6.5

No Home for Dead Birds Drabble—the Red Hood

_I am done pretending_

_You have failed to find what’s left_

Break time, you feel me? Kory and Roy always got my fucking _back_ , no matter the sitch, but sometimes, in our line of work, ya gotta go take care of _personal_ business. For Kory, it’s dealing with her cunt _bitch_ of a sister, and _, goddammit_ , she wouldn’t let me _come and play_ for shit’s sake, and _believe it_ , I made the argument for shutting her the hell up with a Glock.45 enema.

No dice.

Roy is making his sabbatical to the Navajo reservation whats where he started with the bow before Ollie took him in and became a cocksucking little rat, turnin’ his back on his own _ward_ , one that _bled_ and fought the good fight with ‘im. Lotsa those judgmental fuckers used ta wonder why Roy turned to the junk since he was _so lucky_ being taken in and all.

Well, all of ‘em can sit on it and _fucking_ spin.

Point it, when Roy gets too in his own world of _fucked_ and _up_ , when he’s fighting those old demons like I fight the Pit and Kory fights the slavers, he takes off for a while without a word ‘cause really, he’s an asshole sometimes. Still calls me ‘Jaybird,’ too, the dick.

He ain’t been the same since Lian, since he took ‘Arsenal’ back.

Kory worries like hell, but she don’t push too hard—don’t want to see him break wide the fuck open. Even though we both know it’s inevitable. The _waiting_ for it, now that’s the real bitch.

And since we’re calling a break, and neither of ‘em let me tag along—well, an’ I sure as hell ain’t going back to the desert and Talia (fuck _her_ and Ra’s too) it’s time to go home and maybe, _maybe_ get a chance to do some _good_.

 

_Some are not worth saving_

_You are such a pretty mess_

And say whatchu want about Gotham, she’s the classiest whore a fifty can get ya. Sparkly and bright in all the right places; dark and deep with scars and trash, with _knowledge_ everyone _wants—_ if you know what to _ask for_ and _where_ to lookit.

Walking through the Narrows is like stepping back in _time_ , back before the _Bat_ and his spew of bullshit tryin’ to make things _better_ , to make sure the right people _paid_ for what they done.

S’not like the Joker really paid a _price_ for his crimes, right Bruce? Eat. Shit. Motherfucker.

_Now you want to take me down_

_I am the monster in your head_

Last time I was back, I had a little _talk_ with Replacement. Had to give him his fucking _due_ , yeah? ‘Cause what that smart-ass never _understood_ is how _stupid_ he was to take the cape in the first place. His mistake, and we all gotta pay the Piper when it comes time. Kid needed to _understand_ that shit. He needed to _get it_. When it comes to the life, the Bat, the cape, the R on yer chest like a mother _fucking_ _target_ , ain’t nothing for free—it all comes with a _price_.

Dickie understands it, even if he’s too fucking chicken-shit to admit it ‘cause he’s so afraid of hurting Bruce’s feelings. Bruce whats got us all into his personal crusade without giving out alla deets. That motherfucker didn’t learn until Timmy stepped up to take it—that maybe he ought to pull out a consent contract and shit, make sure a bunch of fucking _children_ knew what they was getting themselves into. That dumbass kid shoulda said _no thanks_. Lookit where he ended up. That’s all the proof Mr. Detective needs to see how it really goes in the vigilante game. Best thing I ever _did_ for ‘im was tell him how it was all gonna end—them tossing him aside like some kind of goddamned _garbage_ , like he goes in the fucking gutter.

Did he listen?

Hell no. Well, Baby Bird, guess you see how right ole’ Jason was after all. I ain’t just crazy as shit. The Pit ain’t on me alla time, just enough to make a good fight that much _better_.

Well, after our little _talk_ , he ain’t coming back anyhow.

Nah, truth is, even knowing what I know _now_ , crazy or _not_ —“there is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand,” Mary Shelley, _Frankeinstien_ , the creature, you assholes, not the doc—I would make the same fucking choices all over again. I’d still try to get the goddamned tire off that car, still try to brain that scary bastard, still take ‘im up on his offer, still let Alf teach me to cook and mind my P’s and Q’s. I’d still be the good soldier and try to make shit right, just like him.

It ain’t often I’ll admit it, so keep that shit to yourselves.

_I am suffocating_

_You have failed to pull me in_

And that’s why I’m here, in the rancid bowels, punching the _shit_ outta some gang bangers with a taste for steel and some pathetic skill. It’s why I tried to rule the underworld of the city; to keep the crime in _control_ since Bats ain’t never gonna get how it really is. You ain’t gonna stop crime, no matter how many toys and how many little kids you throw in a cape and how scary you make yourself; crime is always gonna be in the shadowy niche, spreading like a fucking _disease_ , choking out the light.

Whats doing is trying to keep it _contained_. You run the underworld, you control how seedy it gets. That’s just common fucking sense, and’s why I took up the Red Hood, not that anyone’s ever gotta know. Shit, not like anyone’s ever gonna _believe_.

 

_I will drag you down again  
Life is unrelenting_

And the old injuries start achin’ after it’s all said an’ done—all those places what met a crowbar. When they’re lying in a heap of hurt motherfuckers, breathing but gonna be sore as hell in the morning, I know I did what needed to be done. Same feeling I used to get back in the cape.

But musta wore out my welcome ‘cause the old shadows start getting _sharp_ and the feeling of being watched just crawls all over.

 

_And I thought you’d learn by now_

_It seems you haven’t yet_

_I am the venom in your skin_

“Might as well come down, asshole.”

And he does, leaps right off the dark corner, comes down to street level perched on a dumpster.

Golden Boy, the _chosen one_. Nightwing is still hanging around the city even though Bats is back to his old uniform. It’s a fucking head trip to see him after he won the cowl ‘cause, you know, we were trying to do the same damn thing for what we both thought were the right reasons. Only difference—Dickie never wanted it, and it’s alls I ever did.

“Go ahead and check ‘em, fucker. Still breathing.”

“Not here for that.”

Laughing in the helmet always sounds weird as shit with the synths. “Ya ain’t up for recommendation in the Dead Robins Club. Nah, that’s me and that asshole little Demon _only_ , you feel me?”

Once upon a fucking time, Dick Grayson was the reason I worked my ass off to be Robin. And I don’t give a shit what anyone says, street kids all looked up to him—a guy our age going out and fucking up dirty criminals, doing something _right_ , getting the Bat to pick _him_ out of anyone else.

Shit. It’s been a long time for those shitty fairytales to cease, yeah?

“I’m looking for Red Robin,” and there it is, that big brother bullshit he still tries to pull. That _oh, I’m so worried about you, Jason. We still love you and shit, come the fuck back to the Bats_. Uh-hu, like he thinks I crawled outta my grave _yesterday_.

“Pretender, huh?” I drawls it out, take my steps around bodies, fondling my .45s just to see him tense up, get _ready_ for a fight. “Worried about the little bird you threw out, Big Wing?”

 

_I am suffocating_

_You’ve failed to pull me in_

“That’s _not_ what happened,” and ohhh. Touched a _nerve_ there, did I?

“Who the fuck are you _kidding?”_ And this, this is going to make my night right here. Better than the ass-beating I just handed out. “That little motherfucker is the _smart one_. You think he don’t know the score?”

“At the time—“

“You put another kid in _his_ cape, Big Wing. What’chu think he needed? A written _invitation_ to get the hell out _?_ ”

And if I was a better man, I might feel _sorry_ for him. ‘Cause alls he’s doing is denying the fucking _facts_ —Pretender wasn’t _too old_ or ready to move on his own steam. Nah. Dickie just punched his vigilante time card on the _out_.

“I _told_ him I _needed him_ ,” and there’s the defenses. Learned from the best because the Bat has some good bullshit too. “I couldn’t mentor a Robin that was my _equal_. I thought he _understood_ that!”

And I have to shake my head at how fucking _stupid_ he sounds, trying to justify it all, taking my _time_ to ease up on ole’ Big Wing, get up to make this a little more _close_ and _personal_.

“Bull. Shit.”

And yeah, I can hear his teeth grinding. Poor Dickie.

“Alls you managed to do was just push him out of the city, Big Wing. Why keep a _defective_ Robin, a Robin what wasn’t _chosen_ , when you’s got the blood son all ready and raring to go? An’ I seen that fucking little Demon. I bet he _helped_ you do it, yeah? Bet he was riiiight there with you saying it, too. _Out with the old, in with the new. Since you ain’t got the cape, maybe you’s should just hit the fucking road. Make some **room** for the next in line_. Oh, oh, and I _heard_ you thought he was fucking _crazy_ when he thought B was still alive. That true, too? That how you show your _equal_ he’s still gotta place in the ranks? Well, _shit_ , not like you didn’t _apologize_ after he really proved B’s alive, _yeah_?”

 

_I will drag you down again_

_Life is unrelenting_

Oh, Dickie’s not looking so good now—maybe I hurt his feelings, maybe I threw him back to when B took the cape from _him_ ‘cause now he’s all pent-up energy, vibrating like he might explode.

Little more gas on the fire, let’s see how much he can _take_.

“’Cause I mean, at least B waited to replace me after I _died_. I sure as _shit_ didn’t see ‘im put on _my_ cape the first time. Naw, that woulda been fucking _cruel_.” Ah, there. That flinch tells me everything I wanna know. “No _shit_. You let ‘im _watch_? Fuck, Big Wing. I never thought you wanted him gone _that much_. He prob’ly didn’t think so neither.”

“ _You weren’t there_ ,” he finally picks up his balls to come back. Nice. Where’s all that witty banter now, Dick? “You have no idea how it happened! I never—”

“Never what? You never _meant_ to hurt that smart ass little _fuck_? I mean, he only lost what?” I count ‘em on my fingers just so’s he _gets it_. “His real dad, his fake dad, his two _compadres_ , and who else? His little _bitch_ , yeah? So’s what did he have _left_ again? Oh, that’s right. The _cape_.”

And laughing at ‘im, at the _look_ on his face. Fucking. Priceless. “But, s’okay, Big Wing. Really. I had a word with him before he jetted outta the city, little broken bird gonna fly away since that’s what everyone _wants_. He knows he’s just a fucking _body_ between the good people of Gotham and the crazies. He knows all that “family” bullshit was just a line to keep him fighting. You ain’t gotta worry, he knows where his _place_ is, always _has_ been.”

“You _son of a bitch—“_

“Oh yeah, she _was_ , Big Wing. What I am don’t change anything. ‘Cause he’s just as _expendable_ , you _feel me_? Someone finally had the balls to tell ‘im how it really is.”

The punch is a good one, mostly blocked by the helmet, so’s I feel pretty good getting this much of a rise, bringing out Golden Boy’s _dark side_.

 

_I am the monster in your head_

_I am the venom in your skin_

It’s a good fight, me an’ him—not like the cowl because, fuck, that shit isn’t in me anymore. Maybe it’s not in Dickie either.

But we take it to the rooftops, keep it away from street-level, keep it away from the Bat’s usual just ‘cause neither of us want him in on _this_.

And it mighta been comin’ for a while. Maybe since I can’t be with Kory or Roy, maybe I _do_ feel some kind of bad for Pretender and all the fucking branches he hit on the way down the tree, or maybe I still got issues with Dickie—too many from waaay back in the day. Moot point. We take it outta each other in _spades_.

I don’t need to yuck it up in this fight. Already said my piece long before the .45s and the sticks came out to play and we’re trading blows like you’d trade beans in the backroom. Dickie’s all gloom and doom, the _Bat_ , but he ain’t got the ice for it tonight. Too much fire under there. That just means I take an epic ass-kicking since his green scaly panties are all twisted up being faced with the _truth_. It’s fucking bitter, yeah?

But something I learned what after I came back. Something Dickie apparently _didn’t_ : you can outrun everything but the demon on your back. Those bastards, they gots _teeth_.

And he pins me but good alla way down at the Wallstone, right on the edge of the roof. That fist drawn back, covered in blood, and we’re both panting like hell. There’s where he needs _it_ the most.

“You can kick my ass all over town, Dick, but it don’t change anything.” And I laugh because he had no fucking _clue_ —Big Wing never stood a chance in this fight, naw, I always had the final call.

“He ain’t gonna come _back_ and sure as _fuck_ not for you.”

It’s the most satisfying _lights-out_ I’ve ever got.

 

_I am the monster in your head_.


	20. Night Sky III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more in the Tim/Dami realm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put this on Tumblr and kind of forgot about it, but who doesn't need a little more Tim/Dami fluff?

At Wayne Manor, any dinner with more than two attendants has become  _sacred_. When the Batclan has actual time to sit down and eat together, it is rote that such things are to be  _respected_  as Alfred actually has the opportunity to prepare a full meal, B isn’t half-asleep in his Beef Wellington, Dami isn’t at night classes or completing the compendium of homework before time to take to the streets, Dick isn’t on patrol (either of them), and Jay isn’t flipping a random knife in his fingers just for shits and giggles. Even more  _importantly_ , Cass is sitting serenely across from Damian, grinning at him while he talks about taking Titus to a  _foolish_  vet for the arthritis beginning in the hound’s back flank (and  _no,_  he will  _not_  be putting his companion down unless absolutely  _necessary_ —he would not wish the animal to be in agony but he will not play with Titus’ life); Stephanie is nudging Jay’s knee with her heel from across the table when their last hit of good intel proved to be absolute  _shit_  and the crate full of bright neon vibrators provided some criminals still have a sense of humor, but also Babs is sitting at B’s left hand, talking gently about the upgrades to the theatre in the last month and reassuring B the break-in didn’t reach their hidden room where the computer banks and systems are stored.

Alfred is waiting by the sideboard, watching with fond eyes, the post-dinner coffee hot and ready for the first signal.

_But_ —

The obvious ringtone, an instrumental, ends all conversation as the eyes swing to Dami who has obviously paused in the middle of his detailed explanation  _why_  the veterinarian is a complete  _moron_.

“I apologize, Father,” he bites out stiffly, pulling his phone to stop the ringtone when his eyes are drawn to the screen and narrow dangerously.

The text message summary on his lock screen is  _Bf Bff_  and the message:  _Before you get pissed_ answers the question as to whether or not he should be at the Perch after patrol to greet his significant other, who is  _supposed_  to be returning to Gotham in the morning.

Damian doesn’t hesitate, thumbs his screen open and reads the message in its entirety. A single blink and he’s abruptly on his feet, towering over the table, straight-backed, thumbs moving to select the _Call_  option.

“Excuse me everyone,” the formality taken care of, he has the phone against his ear before even stepping back from the table, speaking while he’s striding behind the family.

The darkness in his tone causes the eyes at the table to follow his progression, “What has happened?”

The party on the other end speaks, makes the youngest of the Bats pause mid-stride, halfway to the door. “What is his current temperature?”

The tension in Damian’s shoulders is apparent as he listens closely.

“Now that you have relayed what  _he_  told you to say, tell me the  _truth_.”

Stillness at the table. Only Alfred moves, silently slipping into the kitchen as he is aware of the happenstance and what will be needed. The others are eavesdropping with all the Bat-senses.

“I see. Fortunately, it appears he has not gone septic as of yet; still, I will be leaving momentarily. Keep me informed if the situation deteriorates.” Pause as the speaker starts up with  _something_  that makes the youngest stiffen, “as I  _said_ , I will  _leave_  momentarily.”

The voice on the other end gives a terse reply, a short explanation.

“ _Tt_. I do not argue the fact, as you are  _well aware._  The Titans supplement his disastrous  _tendencies_ as well as can be  _expected_.”

Pause, laughter on the line, more than one voice, and  _no_  Dami is not chuckling softly himself. That must be Grayson. Who, like B, is downing a cup of coffee _quickly_.

“It is gratifying to know we are all united in this.” The “ _fucking right, Rob_!” from Kid Flash makes the youngest Bat quirk a small smile. “I will pack a few things and be on my way soon. Should he wake, there is no need to tell him; it is not as though he can stop me.”

Alfred comes out of the kitchen with containers, travel cups also filled with coffee, and several packed bags. Of all the Bats, he really is the backbone of the family.

“I shall. Until then.” Damian ends the call as Alfred comes up to him and hands out a travel mug to the surprised Robin; next is a bag with his dessert, as well as a helping of dinner for Master Tim, and an emergency bag with the  _necessities_. He moves as Damian adjusts everything, standing by the door with bags as B, Dick, and Jay are already standing at their places.

“You must excuse me from patrol tonight, Father, I will be—“

“Let’s get  _with it_ , Demon,” Jay passes by him, already taking the travel mug and one of the pre-packed bags hanging from Alfred’s shoulder. “The goddamned plane ain’t gonna fly  _itself_ , you feel me?”

The youngest blinks once, opens his mouth to speak as Dick passes him next to get his supplies as well. “C’mon Dami, let’s go see how bad Timmy got himself hurt this time. You can give us the deets when we’re in the air.”

Father is saying to Babs, “don’t worry about the Narrows. Realistically, we’ve been hitting everyone hard the last few weeks. Arkham and Black Gate have been quiet. You three should take a night off.”

Steph laughs a little, her eyes twinkling as she waves them all away.

Babs, arms crossed over her chest, just grins up at him since, well, B might have had some semblance of authority once upon a time. Maybe.

Cass stands up to hug him hard and moves with silent stealth to steal a hug from Damian, Dick, and Jay as B is taking his own mug and bag from Alfred with a nod to the butler’s instructions on the items he packed for Master Tim. The three men take her hugs  _seriously_  since there never seems to be enough  _time_.

“All right,  _all aboard_  the Good Ship Get to Timmy’s Stupid Ass,” Jay calls, already making his way to the grandfather clock. Dami follows behind in somewhat of a stupor, sipping the coffee made perfectly and carrying what feels like a  _bucket_  of Alfred’s home-made soup. B is walking backwards, telling his girls to be careful and  _call_  him if they need anything and  _remember their limitations_.

Babs is just nodding with a serious face on to placate helicopter Bat-Dad while Steph openly laughs at him; Cass just smiles softly, always touched at his obvious concern and protective instincts with  _all_ the Bat kids.

B finally gives a wave and follows his three sons down the stairs while his three daughters plan on what trouble they intend to get into while Gotham is theirs.

**

While the Batwing warms up and B runs through the pre-flight check, Dami is hacking his way into the Tower’s security system with ease—and not because Tim is the admin and he  _cheats_. Rather, it is a constant game between the two of them, how long it will take Dami to guess the new encryption code to the backdoor access, how many different colorful, sexual phrases Tim can get him to learn by hiding the description in the coding (and  _yes_ , he was amused at  _the act of performing fellatio while immersed in a pool of vanilla pudding._  How was he to  _know_  such terms even  _existed_? Tt.)

In seven minutes, utilizing the compendium of knowledge Father, Drake, Gordon, and even Todd had provided over the years, Damian and access the security cameras on the Medical floor, already knowing better than to attempt breaking into the Perch. It could very well fry the Batplane’s mainframe.

Rather, he is correct in his assumption as the live feed sharpens and two occupants—Kid Flash and Red Robin—are patients in the sterilized, pressurized room. The two Titans occupy the third and fifth bed; Red is lax, eyes closed, half-turned away from the camera (and a very quiet sigh lifts his chest when he sees no permanent damage or more machinery than just the oxygen line and IV pole with attached bag—no heart monitoring devices, breathing machines, or worse; apparently it is a good day). Kid Flash isn’t sleeping, but is playing a gaming device while lounging back, also hooked up to an IV bag. The rapid flutter at the bottom of the bed is Kid’s foot tapping a steady staccato.

Satisfied Superboy was not downplaying the situation more than Damian predicted, he cuts the feed and straps himself in, ignoring Todd and Grayson obviously waiting for him to report something. As much as he may have some  _sympathy_  for his elder brothers in the current situation with Red, he cannot bring himself to give up aspects of this new intimacy, of his ability to claim deferential knowledge in regards to their third Robin. What’s  _more_ , he now has the right Grayson and Todd previously had to push their way into Red’s common (and terrible) practices to make certain  _someone_ forced him to care for himself. It is gratifying Damian now has that position, to claim, to push for the _truth_ , to take a drawer in the Perch of the Tower or Gotham for  _himself_  and his sundries, to claim a few hangers in the closets, a space in the hidden spots for his tunic and uniform (even the ones Red had taken  _liberties_  to upgrade). His body has a niche in the mattress, another pillow appearing seemingly overnight, more blankets, vegetarian-friendly fares, and even a two-tiered cat tower should he wish to bring Alfred along with him. The dog bed for Titus appeared soon after, a box of treats under the kitchen sink.

A second toothbrush, a bottle of his shampoo, of his body wash, the filching of his t-shirts and  _two_  of his hooded sweatshirts, these things simply began  _happening_  in a comfortable, valuable progression—without the need for words or permission, just something taken as rote. Red seemed to anticipate this strange… _need_  in Damian to have  _verification_  of his welcome. However, merely the  _sight_  of Tim, sleepy, hair wild, in one of his shirts had prompted something in him to rise to the fore, pick the smaller man up by the thighs and walk him back to the bedroom.

In return, Damian had supplies prepared for Tim’s stay, moving to a room with space for a bigger bed, bigger closet, bigger shower to accommodate the two of them (of course, Pennyworth, Grayson, and Todd understood the reasoning behind it; thankfully, Father simply put a hand on his shoulder, advising him as he was a grown  _man_ , he should have more  _room_ , God knew the Manor has  _enough_  of them. Damian had gravely nodded his agreement and nothing more was said on the matter). He made certain to partition a new laptop, affix the Red Robin insignia himself and leave the device in his clever hiding spot with his own machine, set up a secondary, smaller desk in the opposite corner as his to stock with tools and components should the elder man wish to  _tinker_  (he is obviously successful as the last time Tim had stayed in the Manor, he had gone back to his own established room once for appearances and returned back through the window, grinning widely—the morning saw him at the smaller desk, fixing a broken compartment in the Robin utility belt, as though it bothered him to know there could be an issue with Dami’s equipment).

Titus, of course, had no quandaries flopping his massive head in Red’s lap, tongue lolling out; Alfred the cat merely allowed Red the  _honor_  of petting and doling out treats. Bat-cow had little opinion to the shift in dynamic.

As the plane sails, Dami shoots a look over to Grayson and Todd sitting side-by-side at the opposite bank of systems while Father pilots from the front.  The two are holding hands out of Father’s immediate sight and talking softly. They are…his only regret in this situation—at the time, it hadn’t occurred to him the break between the three of them had been anything more than consented. However, now that he  _knows_ —

Dami turns back to his own bank of screens, brought back to the situation at hand when they enter California air space, cutting into the night.

The previous offer to Grayson, the  _possibility_ , still lingers. Not something he’s brought before his significant other as of yet, hesitant to breach the subject until they are both  _comfortable_ , stable.

Even though he wishes to be purely selfish, watching those two, he thinks perhaps the time may be soon.

**

Kid Flash is out of the Infirmary and on the roof by the time Damian and the Bats are coming down the walkway. Cassie, arms crossed over her chest just mutters something to the effect, “thank the _goddess_ , the only one other than  _Alfred_  he’ll listen to,” which makes Kon raise a brow at her…but grudgingly agree.

None of the Titans are surprised to see the Batfamily coming out of the plane. A few pleasantries are exchanged while Damian takes Kon’s arm above the elbow without a necessary word.

“Run down,” Kon answers easily with a shrug, “he blacked out after that thing with the Mirror League—we heard him hit the ground over the comm line, so we hauled ass to find him in the field. No new injuries, but we’ve got him on antibiotics and a hydrating drip just in case.”

Damian sighs, frowning, “he will be the early death of me.”

Kon quirks a grin, “seriously, Rob. I’m  _invulnerable_  and now? I’ve got grey hair. Totally his fault.”

Robin sans the costume smirks, “one of these days, Kent. He will  _learn_.”

“If anyone can do it,” Bart supplies, stepping up, the bruises on his face fading, “I’m throwing money down on you, dude.”

“I will make it part of my  _mission_ ,” but he’s eyeing the obvious marks intently, quirking an inquiring eyebrow.

Bart folds his arms over his chest stubbornly, “don’t you start too.”

Dami just  _waits_ , giving the unblinking Bat stare down.

“Fine!” Bart throws his hands in the air, “I might have had a run-in with Zoom before the Mirror League showed the fuck up with their crappy tech, but  _that guy_ is such an asshat. Really, I’m good now.”

Damian is well aware of the dangerous enemy to the Flash and his like—even Barry has horror stories of the things Dr. Zoom was able to accomplish. He makes a mental note to check on the speed traps once he assures himself Tim is healing and sleeping. Rather, he releases Kon’s arm and lays that bigger palm on Bart’s shoulder, a move very similar to a certain Bat-themed vigilante, startling a look of surprise from the older hero.

“It is good you have faced him without worse,” Damian fills in easily, “I have read his files before. Zoom is unpredictable and a genius, a dangerous combination.”

“You’re telling me, Rob,” Bart suddenly looks weary still, half grinning up. “Next time, I’ll make a few calls out if he’s not, you know, throwing me into time rifts and shit.”

The subtle acknowledgement, a testament to how far he and the Titans have come in the last few years, makes Dami’s hand squeeze just slightly. “I expect no less,” he answers without hesitation, with  _sincerity_  and not just because of Tim.

The two best friends watch him go down into the Tower while BB and a visiting Vic are filling the rest of the Bats in on the massive supervillain ‘take over the world’ scheme Red coordinated before he just passed the hell out. Jay and Dick watch Dami go, but stay to get the details on how big of a bad the team has been dealing with for the past two days.

“You know,” Bart’s hip is cocked to one side. “I would literally do anything for Red, right?”

Kon looks over, one eyebrow arched.

“But if he keeps sabotaging shit like this, I might have to beat his ass. I mean, like, severely, right?”

“I have a better idea,” Kon replies mildly, earning Kid’s side-eye. “If he fucks this up with Rob, then we get the next shot. How about that?”

For the better part of thirty second, Bart is blinking rapidly, ingesting what Kon just insinuated. Kon finally looks over at him, “well, if I’m wrong, then I’ll take the next one.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Bart’s eyes are wide, “I never  _knew_ —well, shit. That makes sense, I guess.”

Kon just grins back at him. “Even if he doesn’t fuck it up, KF, we could… you know, maybe  _try_ —”

The heat that suffuses Bart’s cheeks makes his honey-colored eyes more prevalent in his face. “We…We should  _talk_  more, ah, about it, Blue. Yeah… Yeah, I think that would be a pretty sound plan.”

And Kon’s white smile glints in the night.

**

More gently than most people would credit, Damian bare fingers slide through Tim’s sweaty, messy hair while his eyes soften. As much as Tim claims he would get his mane of hair cut again, he still has not managed to get it shorter than below his ears (and yet, Damian does not mourn the fact—he enjoys this, one of the few soft parts of Tim’s body—whether he gives it this gentle touch or grips it while he writhes under Tim’s  _expertise_ ).

“What am I to do with you,  _habibi_?” But the warmth is his tone is impossible to miss as he leans down slightly and presses his mouth to Tim’s forehead, warm but not overly hot.

He has already removed the IV, read the reports on what treatment has already been administered. Realistically, he could move Tim to the Perch and care for him there, but the other Bats would also intrude. For the moment, Damian will keep an eye on the monitors and prepare the food Pennyworth sent for when Tim awakens.

**

Finding out he’d not only blacked out in the Tower after coordinating a major assault against baddies, but  _also_  that the Batfamily en masse descended on the Tower like a vengeful wave of mothering hens, is not conducive to  _good morning Red_.

But, with Dami’s hand lightly stroking his hair, the younger man’s chin braced on an arm close to Tim’s head on the bed in the Infirmary—well, that just makes  _being sick is ass_  a little less terrible. Those green eyes, clear and sharp as glass, softening in relief when Tim opens his eyes, turns his head slightly on the pillow.

“Hey handsome,” his grin is a little less than a wince since  _uh-oh_ ,  _busted_.

A soft fluttering of Arabic ( _it is evening, my heaven_ ), shaping Dami’s mouth in irresistible lines, earning a smile.

“ _Azizy_ ,” Tim whispers back, “I’m okay, nothing too bad—“

Dami just hums, still shifting a hand through Tim’s hair, “the Titans heard you blackout over the comms,  _jannety_. You fought metas while your immunities were dangerously low.”

Okay, so there was that.

“After you eat, I will carry you to the Perch to rest. Once your temperature is at acceptable levels, we can return to Gotham if that suits you.”

Tim chuff a laugh, his chest not too tight with sickness because  _really,_ it isn’t  _that bad_ , okay? The trip is a nice gesture but unnecessary—

“You aren’t going to carry me and second—“

Dami leans up and presses a kiss to his forehead and a soft one to his mouth before sitting back down.

“No fair being cute about it,” Tim deadpans.

“I must resort to dirty tactics to take care of you,” unconcerned the younger man shrugs.

“That…That is—“

“True and necessary,” Dami fills in, “I will warm up Pennyworth’s soup for you. Stay here until I return,” standing, the younger Bat leans down to press another chaste kiss before turning to stride out of the room.

And Tim, Tim just lies back and appreciates the view.

**

The plan, however, is derailed—by  _mother hens_. When Dami returns with the soup, he is not shocked to see Dick sitting beside Tim’s hip, hugging the younger man (probably into submission) with his patented  _hug of **doom**_. Jason on one side of the bed with B on the other, both men are taking their liberties in checking the sick bird’s vitals and unabashedly hiking up or down clothing around Dick’s hold to check for any injuries (older ones already stitched or bandaged, bruises and scrapes, nothing devastating as all four note). Tim has his opportunity to protest for all the good it does.

Once the preliminaries are accomplished, Father, Grayson, and Todd take time while Tim eats to assure themselves of his immediate health, reluctant to leave one of their birds who is so obviously accident prone and a master at hiding his injuries/illnesses.

Tim, as predicted, argues Gotham needs them more than he does, and  _look_ , his temperature is already down to below 100° so he’s  _totally_  on the mend.

All four Bats give him  _the look_. Aimed as his  _face_.

None of them are happy with leaving their sick bird, Dami, however, assures them he will be staying for the duration and bring their third Robin back to Gotham once he is feeling up to the trip (the youngest also ignores the slight glare from his significant other when he immediately cuts off the train that  _all_  of them should return home to defend their city.  _Tt,_ as if he would agree to simply  _leave_ ). Only placated by Damian’s stubborn resolve—as it could possible match Tim’s—B, Jay, and Dick stay long enough to talk a bit more, get some of the deets on the Mirror League, obviously horrible at choosing names but, you know,  _bad guys_.

“So, they have the ability to mirror super abilities? Taking up Metallos gig?”

Tim shrugs, the color already back in his face and his eyes clearing of the lethargy of sickness, “Mirror Master has been doing some experimenting with Metas that can pretty much mimic certain abilities. It took some thought, but we were able to determine which ones needed some kind of conduit as well as how in-depth the imitation could go. None of them could alter their genetic codes, so win for us.” Tim shrugs one shoulder in a  _no big deal_  kind of way.

“Good thing they couldn’t mirror the Speed Force or Wonder Girl’s demigoddess abilities,” Bruce’s hand had snuck under the cover to absently grip Tim’s ankle, something that had usually comforted the younger Bat in the last few years. Well, World’s Greatest Detective.

“Very much so,” Tim grins at the four Bats around him, “they couldn’t use the Speed Force or Rave’s dark magic or BB’s shape shifting against us. Mostly, they could fly and use super strength. Two of them  _could_ speed, but burned out without anything to feed into their power. We were… _lucky_.”

And the Bats give him easy smiles and attention, honing in on the fact that  _yes_ , they were lucky indeed. Tim completely misses out on the shifting looks, but is okay enough that Dick’s octopus hug and Jay’s grip on his wrist don’t bother him anymore—the former  _agony_  that used to come with those soft touches is finally being replaced with the bittersweet pang of nostalgia and slight regret. When he looks over at Dami’s green eyes and hidden smile, he can almost forget it all for what he has now ( _almost_ ).

So he lets himself relax as much as possible after Dick, Jay, and B finally leave and Dami is striding into the Perch holding onto him without breaking so much of a sweat since Tim is much too light for a man of his size and muscle mass (“I eat  _fine_.” “…surely you are making a joke at my expense, _habibi_.”).  Rather than pause to put him down in any of the numerous spots, Dami orders the lock-down absently and keeps going into the bathroom.

Tim watches with warm eyes while Dami starts the shower, sticking a hand in to test the water, and pulls his own shirt before reaching for the hem of Tim’s. The younger is meticulous in everything—from taking off each item of clothing with care, to keeping a hold of Tim’s hip while the water eases some of the aches, to being absurdly gentle when washing around injuries or tender bruises, kneeling down to swirl the soapy cloth over Tim’s battered knees and feet, resting him against the shower wall to pick up one foot and then the other. He works shampoo in Tim’s hair with both hands, keeping them pressed together, Tim’s head tipped back against his collar bone, eyes closed while Dami works up the lather with a small smile.

However, he refuses to let Tim return the favor unless he is sitting. Tim’s eyes narrow slightly before he lowers himself down on the shower seat and waits, eyes taking in the lines of Damian’s bare body ( _think of terribly unsexy things right now_ ). With a small sigh, the younger man soap up the cloth and kneels between Tim’s knees, head tilted back to look up at him.

“You’re silly, you know,” Tim scoots forward to start with Dami’s neck and shoulders, palming one side of Baby Bat’s neck while the other works against mocha skin. “Cute as hell, but silly.”

“I have every right to assure myself of your well-being,” Dami drawls out.

“You didn’t have to come all this way for nothing.”

“I would not call passing out in the field after a battle  _nothing_.”

“No permanent damage.”

“This time.”

Tim’s eyes follow the movement of his hand down the chest, the abs, the wicked scars, and tempting skin. He very carefully concentrates on the act—not of what  _that spot_  right on the side of Baby Bat’s ribs tastes like—

Dami turns, giving Tim his back, and the movement continues. A hand grips his calf while his thumb makes lazy circles at the nape of the neck, feeling the tension slowly give way. And, yes, Damian notices there is another bottle of shampoo in this shower for him,  _his_  preferred brand.

Tim tips his head back with a hand on the jaw and starts to work said shampoo into Dami’s hair, pretending he doesn’t hear the soft sounds that really just  _really_  make the whole  _trying not to be aroused as hell with a naked, wet Dami right fucking **here**_ so much more difficult.

Usually, picturing something like, well, Cobblepot  _in a bikini_  is the ultimate boner-killer, but not  _even that_ is working right now. Dammit. This totally isn’t the  _time_.

Tim gingerly stands, guiding Dami to stand as well, step back into the spray so water sluices off him, taking soap and shampoo, giving Tim a few breaths to calm down a little (not) and focus on those meditation exercises during the whole Iron Fist training ordeal.

“I—it didn’t hit me until halfway through,” Tim admits throwing himself a  _bone_  here (distraction: his second most effective weapon aside from the bo). “That’s the truth.”

Hands raised to assure his hair is shampoo-free, Dami’s green eyes peer at him from over one shoulder while the water tracks down. He’s grave when it comes out, “The sensors in your suit did not trigger, Tim.”

_Fuck. Busted yet again_.

He sighs a little because  _yeah, bad habits and such_. Doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try to backpedal like hell, “I’m  _sorry_ , I shouldn’t have—“

And, well, Dami is a  _Bat_. Turning, moving with speed even in the shower, just suddenly pressing Tim against the tiled wall, hands above his shoulders to box him in while with his arms and body, those jade eyes miss  _nothing_.

“One day,” his voice deep and low, pulled from the depths of his chest, “you shall  _believe_ in me, Tim. You will believe I take you as you are, that I have no wish to  _change_  you. I accept you. I only want to be there when you fall. To be permitted to  _catch_  you.” And the softness, something so rare in the youngest—the one that’s had to overcome the brutality of the world of assassins, to choose his  _own_ way—makes the words, the placating promises die on Tim’s tongue while he stares up into that brutal beauty. “One day,  _jannety_ , you will trust in me.”

And his eyes soften with that, with  _Dami_  putting it out there in his usual ‘this is how it is like it or not’ kind of way when he’s being just so  _fucking_  sincere and—

Tim closes the distance, hands finding, framing Dami’s face gently so he can press a desperate, chaste kiss to that wet mouth, close his eyes  _tight_  against the litany of things running through him at the admission, trying to keep himself together and not start with the emotional bullshit. Out of everyone, the Titans, the Bats, the allies and enemies, sometimes it’s only Dami that  _gets it_.

And he’s pulled tighter into an embrace with his chest pressed against Dami’s, their skin slick and warm. His thumbs move in gentle circles on that strong jaw, the kiss sweet and slow.  It’s both of them trying to relay something far more important than words can spit out—it’s in the way Dami’s hands span his hips, the gentle movement of his mouth and tongue.

When he finally pulls back with a sigh, Tim tilts Dami’s face down, and presses their foreheads together. Dami doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t  _need_  to—they simply stand under the spray and hold on.

**

His body, however, is apparently not on the  _be gentle and sweet_  train—but at least (as he quickly wraps a towel around his waist) he convinces Dami he can walk on his own steam from the bathroom to the bedroom. Well, that doesn’t stop Baby Bat from following right behind him, moving away to toss the blankets back on the bed so he can probably be forced to stay there until probably  _everyone_  in the superhero community (though, knowing Dami, he’ll probably call Alfred and make him give a  _yea_  or _nay_ , he always does) decides Red Robin is good to get moving again. Because, you know, superheroes are a) the worst gossips  _ever_ , b) come  _the fuck apart_  when someone in the community is down for the count, and c) have little to no shame. Seriously, ask BB, he can’t even  _buy_  some.

Fluffing pillows and Tim’s careful arrangement of the towel, however, don’t stop Dami from noticing the— _issue._  A slow, sly smile spreads over his face, pulling the scar at his lip when his eyes flicker down; he hums a little to himself and eases the drawer of the nightstand open.  Tim is busy searching for a pair of boxers and looking for some pajama pants (he discards a pair, quickly burying it back under the rest since, well, he has a bad  _habit_  of taking clothes apparently). While he digs, hair still dripping down the nape of his neck, Dami moves to carelessly lean in and run his tongue over the sensitive skin, tasting both the droplet and salty-sweet.

As the youngest plans, Tim shudders with the motion, his free hand bracing on the dresser. Taking that for assent, Dami steps behind him, back to chest, to pull the elder up so he can slowly press his mouth to a shoulder and work his way to the side of Tim’s neck, kiss by gentle kiss. A soft chuff of a laugh and Tim brings a hand up to turn Dami so he can press a kiss onto his mouth because,  _no_  Baby Bat, you don’t need to follow up with this. In his own way, Tim already  _believes_.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he says gently, looking up into those eyes, “we don’t have to—“

But Dami just turns him, lifts him up carefully, and takes them to the bed, not giving a good  _damn_  if the towels flutter off and away from their skin in the process.

Rather, he is more interested in leaning over Tim to begin with gentle touches, his mouth and hands absurdly tender and thorough to build the pleasure slowly, to allow Tim’s body time for the nerve endings to come  _alive_.

“Dami,  _azizy_ ,” he gasps, “it’s  _okay_. I  _promise_. I—I’ll be  _fine_ , you don’t have to—to do that.”

“Relax for me,  _habibi_.” Dami breathes against his collar bone, “ _This_  is my pleasure.”

Tim groans with it, with the easy kissing and tasting of skin, of calloused fingers sliding over the ridges and curves of his body, pausing to whisper over old scars in reverence. The erogenous zones, the place under his knees, the inside of his thighs, the wicked scar cutting across his lower abdomen, are carefully and methodically stroked, kissed, worshiped to make the pressure in him intensify.

“D—Dami! I want to—I—”

“Sshh,” the younger whispers over the tight nub, rubbing his parted lips over, “allow me to take care of you. Tim—” and he kisses the bud, circles it with his tongue, pulls it into his mouth to  _suck_.

Tim writhes under him, tossing his head while threading his fingers in Dami’s hair to hold him closer.

“— _let me_.”

And,  _God_ , he  _does_  because Dami uses  _that voice_ , the one that literally makes him melt. Fuck. He’s got too many weaknesses for Baby Bat and it just—

Tim gasps, looking down with heat taking him over when Dami’s hips start moving, sliding their stiffening erections against one another in a sensuous, easy rhythm, taking his  _time_  while he lathes the scars along the chest and sides, kissing, sucking, licking. And not being able to give  _back_ , to have Dami under his hands,  _his_  mouth is tantamount to  _fucking torture_ , but the slow and tender, the easy and gentle, the kiss of teeth and sliding of skin, is making his thought process stutter without a reboot. He’s swallowed by sensation, sensitive to every  _move_  as Dami draws him out, makes him focus  _only on the pleasure_.

He loses himself enough that he has no idea what’s happening when the younger Bat finally rises to his knees, green eyes so unbearably  _hot_  and finally,  _finally_.

Tim automatically starts to spreads his knees, making room for Dami’s hips. Those palms make him pause, fitting his knees together so Dami can crawl up his body, kneel over his abdomen and—

Tim’s mouth falls open a little. Baby Bat’s hand is already slippery, and he reaches around to grip the straining erection sliding over his ass, slicking Tim up for something they haven’t done yet. Just  _fuck_ , you’re, you’re going to do this  _now_? He didn’t even get to have fun prepping or  _anything_ —this,  _this_  is very not  _okay_.

The growl rising up makes Dami smirk down at him as though he knows precisely what Tim is thinking, why those hands are gripping the younger man’s thighs tightly. He has already prepared himself, anticipating finally taking Tim within his body, to become  _one_  in this way—he should have asked for it sooner, yet their couplings had usually been so full of  _need_  and  _want_ , almost frantic at times; it is not often Damian Wayne,  _Robin_  could claim himself to be  _overwhelmed_. Tim’s capitulation, the intimacy he  _gives_ , however—

“There will be another time,” he soothes.

“I’m so pissed,” Tim returns calmly, hips moving just slightly, enough to make him moan for it. “So _pissed_ ,  _azizy_.”

“Then you should care more for your health in the field,  _habibi_.” Slightly admonishing, but Dami means his sentiments; he has no wish to change Timothy Drake—for better or worse.

Tim’s voice goes dark,  _deep_  just like his eyes when Dami straightens, arches slightly so his muscles move in that terribly dangerous sync. “I should have been the one opening you up. _I_  should have been sucking you, licking you, getting you ready for me.”

Dami’s eyes flutter closed, a shudder working up his spine when he considers that  _mouth_  and what it could do to him. He releases Tim’s erection, shifts back so the throbbing length slides over him, close to his wet, stretched opening.

“Once you are in full health, I look forward to having your… _undivided_  attention.”

Those hands slide up to grip Dami’s hips when he starts taking Tim in  _slowly_ , so unbearably  _slow_ and a moment when Tim almost forces him to stop, stares hard,  _intent_ , at his lover’s face, worried it might all be  _too soon_  and not enough prep for  _this_ —

The deep purr rising up, Dami’s head tips back, mouth open, all of it negates  _that_  thought. Even Dami’s hands easing over Tim’s tight wrists and forearms, rubbing the tension away as he finally seats himself on Tim’s hips, taking  _everything_  and finally  _looks_ —

His eyes are soft, pupils blow with  _pleasure_  and  _need_  in the same way when Tim takes him all the way, and he sinks as far into Tim’s body as he possibly  _can_ , joining them so perfectly, so intimately.

“ _Dami_ , oh my  _God,_ ” and Tim’s voice is  _wrecked_  with that look on Baby Bat, so sensual, so erotic, and the words break from him in Arabic so it can go right to  _heart_.  _“How beautiful you are when you give yourself to me.”_

Dami’s thigh and knees flex when he moves, just rocking to test the sensations, biting down on the inside of his cheek when the spot inside his body flares to life as the head of Tim’s cock brushes against it.

“ _Azizy, you’ve taken me so deep, I am undone,_ ” fingers gently massaging the niche of his hips, and still he grips Tim’s forearms, holding on, squeezing once before he moves with more assurance, more _grace_. The last time he had allowed this had been with Colin—a lifetime ago it seems now that he is here.

Tim’s eyes are a combination of hot and soft when red suffuses Dami’s face and chest, when he bites his lip but noises still escape, when the Arabic makes his cock  _strain_  more but he keeps Tim’s forearms held to deny the temptation to  _touch_. He is so  _close_  to losing himself as it is.

_“This is contentment,”_ he whispers back and rises, eyes fluttering when he falls back down and the friction, the  _wetness_ , all so perfect in a way he could not ever remember this being before.

And as he wants, Tim watches, cannot take his eyes away, can do nothing but let Dami find the right rhythm, to release his forearms and lean back, put his body on display while he  _moves_. The sinful shift of sinews and skin, the tight  _heat_  of Dami’s body, the  _gift_  given so freely and without reservation—

Tim moves his hips gently, tentatively, trying to avoid too much, too fast, but he has to change his grip from Dami’s knees and thighs, has to hold on to  _something_  so he doesn’t lose himself in the moment. The sweet, soft pleasure is growing, gaining momentum with every cry, every shift of hips and knees, winding them both up so  _tightly_.

And  _God_ , it’s so good, so  _perfect_  that he should have insisted on this  _long_  before, to have his lover within him, making his body strain for more, to be so  _full_. He is hardly aware of the noises coming from deep down or the sharp jolt of his hips when he hits that spot right on; he can, however, feel the tension in Tim’s hands gripping his thighs as if he cannot make himself let go, the pressure of Tim’s hips rising to meet his, to time their motions perfectly so they  _both_  strain with  _more_.

And in this moment, there is only them, only Dami leaning over to brace himself on his elbows and cry his pleasure into Tim’s mouth, only Tim coaxing him, moving faster,  _more_ , telling Baby Bat how stunning he is when he comes, only the two of them locked together.

**

A few hours later, the holoscreen in the Perch flashes with the time, and Dami moves only slightly to fumble for the remote and hit a button to be certain the alarm doesn’t go off. He presses another of the endless kisses to the top of Tim’s head lolling on his shoulder, the older man sprawled out half on top him and breathing easier than before. His forehead is warm, not hot, and he sleeps on even with Dami’s slow movements.

The youngest goes back to his phone, surfing the usual array of reports from the Steph, Cass, and O the night before, surveying the usual drug deals, muggings, thefts, and an interesting string of possible serial art gallery vandalisms that seem to  _him_  to be more a distraction for other crimes. Shortly after Tim passed out, Dami checked in with Superboy to assure Kid Flash had been seen again (tt,  _fool_ , you cannot save the world if you are injured as such—know your limitations), he had, and then with Grayson to be sure he, Father, and Todd had made it back to Gotham with no issues (and also perhaps to remind the eldest to set out food for Alfred the cat, also his toy mouse is in the cupboard). When the return reply requested a status update on Tim, Dami simply held the phone at arm’s length and took a picture of the two of them and sent it.

His phone pinged less than ten seconds later, a text from Todd.

_Fucking righteous, Demon. Keep Timmy’s stupid ass in bed. You know, the fun way_.

Followed by an obscene amount of emojis. Hm, seems Stephanie is rubbing off on him.

With a small smirk, Dami types back  _one does what is effective. Twenty-three minutes of noises, Todd. What is your last count?_

Rather than wait (and assuming, considering the time of day, Todd has already spit out a mouthful of coffee) for a reply, Dami turns his phone off and sets it aside, shifting gently so he can have both arms around the sleeping Tim, and relax enough to drift off again.


	21. NIght Call III: Jay/Tim Stripper AU as requested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before he’s even awake, he’s aware he’s probably overstayed his welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long :/ Someone requested it forever ago.

****

And Robin…Robin should have _known_ better. Well, someone like Jason Todd is bound to have _talent_.

Whatever this thing is, whatever the morning might bring, whatever possible risks may be involved, the endless possibilities take a backseat since spatial awareness is really taking up any and all brain functions. I.e. he’s too aware Jase is kneeling behind him, moaning against the back of his naked thigh, running his tongue up the trembling muscle until he’s—

“Oh! Oh _God,_ ” Robin exhales, shaky, gripping the wrought iron headboard in a white knuckled grip, “you can’t… _Jase!_ ”

The returning noise is terribly _obscene_ , wet sounds of sucking, licking, and hands that could break bone or smash teeth, are firm in gripping the lower part of his ass cheeks to hold him open for _this_. And the rasp of stubble against that sensitive place just shoots _more_ sensation up through his nerve endings and right up to the opening of his body—a place Jason seems to want to map out with his lips and tongue and teeth.

The taller man doesn’t answer, too lost in this intimacy. Because Jase? He’s a man with a _knack_ for reading people, calling them on bullshit before he gets read a line. And Robin here, Robin is a guy with too much strain when he’s not working what he’s _got_ on some stage somewhere. Coming back to the club over and over again is his release from whatever real life he’s got out there, a way to take the edge off. Dancing like he’s fucking you, ripping his clothes off like he’s imagining someone else doing it to him, working his muscles hard and fast, writhing and thrusting, all of it is the _real guy_ working himself out of whoever Robin is during the daytime.

And Jason doesn’t give a rat’s ass who the persona is, all he wants is to help bring out the _reality_ , to give that guy what he obviously _needs_.

The body under him, a span of moving muscle, panting quietly in the comfortable dim, takes what he gives. Over and over he drives his lips and tongue, opening Robin up, making him _wet_ and oh so _ready_.

“Please…” and finally, what he’s been waiting for, “Jase, _please_. I—I need…”

Shoving his tongue inside to lick around Robin’s walls makes the younger man rear up, cry _out_ , his chest stutter for breath even while his hips push back against Jason’s face, unconsciously asking for _more, **more**_.

Fisting his own aching cock, Jason lets himself have the luxury of sliding his tongue over Robin’s ass cheeks, over the crease of trembling, tight thigh. He bites lightly, his cock so hard in his own hand.

When he slides up Robin’s body, mouth trailing over the spans of skin and sinew, his teeth kiss the edges of bone and hands hold Robin’s ass cheeks open so he can slide his heavy cock over that pretty pink hole.

“Taste good, Baby Bird,” he breathes against the back of Robin’s neck, “so good. Just how I thought you would.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Robin pants out, “that was amazing…”

Jason just smirks, mouth moving over Robin’s neck, his hips lining up his cock with that slick, stretched entrance causing Robin to shiver under him, tilt his own hip up in want.

“When’s last time you got ate out properly, _Robin?_ ”

“Too long,” he admits breathless and Jason hums in acknowledgement. His hips shift, groaning softly when he catches on Robin’s slick opening.

“Sounds like you needed it. I like that, Baby Bird. I get to give ya just what ya _need_.”

The shiver that goes through the younger man’s body is just the right kind of _want_ for Jase to grin against the back of his neck, to work his hips against Robin’s sweet ass.

“I wanna feel you bare, baby. Wanna fill you up _nice_. That okay?”

And just _that_ — _baby_ —makes Robin’s already hard dick just that much _more_ , coupled with the promise of bare skin, of Jase coming deep inside him. He bites his lip, almost drawing blood to keep _control_.

“I’m clean too. We’re—we’re good. Just please _fuck_ me,” is hoarse and throaty, just the right combination leading into what will be _fucked-the-hell-out_ he’s aiming for.

He rubs the head of his cock in small circles at the opening to Robin’s body, anticipation making his balls tingle, his chest hitch in a half-breath, half-moan.

“Relax for me, Robin. Lemme take care of you.” And he starts to slide in, taking his time, being easy about it so he doesn’t hurt the man under him because _damn_ he’s _tight_ just around the head.

And since he ain’t no small fry, and a guy like him is _aware_ of size and how easy he needs to be, he goes back to mouth at skin, one hand slides up the front of Robin’s body to touch his light pink nipples, thumb them a little, slide back down to pull teasingly at his own impressive cock, to work a little bit of distraction while Jason opens his body up juuust right. Easy and slow, not giving, taking just _enough_.

“Oh _God_ ,” Robin, bracing on his elbows, hitches his hip up automatically to let Jason’s cock go deeper, to fill him _up_.

Those words _lemme take care of you_ make his chest uncomfortably tight, bring to the fore a whole different kind of _need_. Not something he could have ever planned happening when they started out the night in the club after his slight absence (but wasn’t that what this is all about in the first place? About finally taking care of his _needs?_ ), and he has to swallow down the knee-jerk reaction to pull away from anything emotionally intimate, to keep himself planted in Jase’s bed while he’s slowly filled and _God_ it’s been too long, and it feels so _right_.

It’s been too fucking long since he let himself _have_.

That hand grips his jaw, turns his face over his own shoulder so Jason can take his mouth, can suck at his tongue while his free hand jacks Robin’s hard cock and the feeling of _so much, almost **too** much_ makes him moan down Jason’s throat—

“I know baby, I know,” and those _eyes_ are clear as glass, intent on his expression when his hips finally meet Robin’s ass and _all of it_ —so, so much, so, _so_ good…

“God, you’re so _tight_ ,” Jase keeps himself still, trying to give Robin long enough to adjust (when _apparently_ he wasn’t just blowing smoke, it _has_ been a while consider how _tight_ he is), and makes the next series of kisses slower, dirtier, wetter, with tongue and want and anticipation. “Gotta tell me if yer okay, baby,” said right against Robin’s mouth, “Don’t make me guess.”

 He frees a hand to smooth over Robin’s outer thigh, the muscle trembling in his palm.

“It’s good, it’s _so good_ ,” those dark blue eyes open with the mask highlighting how dark, how blown his pupils are, “don’t stop. Fuck, _Jason_ don’t stop!”

He gives Robin his mouth back, wet and sloppy so he can pull back slightly and _push_ , start working it for their pleasure. He eats down the sounds, the soft _ah_ s and _mmph_ s. He strokes the thigh while his cock gives him more go-ahead than he’s gotten in a _while_. Robin…Robin might become a new addiction, and as much as Jason is a man that doesn’t like to be indebted or tethered, he’s strangely _good_. Maybe too much watching the kid on stage, too much musing what the real story is—all the _whys_ and _how comes_ behind the mystery dancer—but in this moment, he could wake up to that face, to that body for a whole lot of mornings, and be perfectly all right.

And he finds Robin’s spot once he feels the body relax enough, hitting dead on while he’s licking into Robin’s mouth and fondling his balls with the free hand. The immediate reaction of pleasure shooting through the smaller man makes those carved hips jerk back, shoving Jason _deep_.

“Oh fuck, yeah,” his voice darker, softer when he draws back from Robin’s mouth, bites at the nape of his neck, “ _fuck yeah_ , baby. Right there feels good. That’s what you need, ain’t it?” And he draws back out while Robin keens under him, making the head of his cock rub right over that _spot_ a few times while he bites down and _sucks_.

“Oh **_God_** , yesss—“ now his arms are shaking, trying to hold himself up when he’s so _full_ and his body thrumming with the raw sensations—the stretch of Jason’s cock opening him, his own painfully hard and drooling pre-cum with every thrust, the tingle up his spine when the spot inside is nudged, the hands all over him, mapping him out, learning the shapes and textures of his body like a lover and not a one-night.

And _Robin_ , for _once_ , regrets the mask.

**

Before he’s even awake, he’s aware he’s probably overstayed his welcome.

The plan ( _who are you kidding, **what** plan?_ ) didn’t include a good morning with the walk of shame down the street to his penthouse apartment close to Wayne Tower. He’d meant to slip out while Jason was sleeping, and, like a dumb ass, had drifted off himself after three rounds of mind-blowing sex with Jason’s deep accent wrapped around him from all sides.

(No, he’s not going to examine how easy it had been with Jason’s bulk snuggled against the length of him, an arm around his waist keeping him _close_. It’s the first time in _how long_ since he slept more than three hours.)

But when the mattress behind him dips slightly, he comes to, realizing he may have made a grave error in judgement. The scent of fresh body wash and shampoo coupled with _fresh coffee_ is what meets him when the layers of sleep slide off, and that arm comes around his bare waist again, warm mouth pressing against the side of his neck.

 _Fuck, he probably wants me to **go**_.

What he _doesn’t_ expect is the series of gentle kisses moving down to his exposed shoulder, the hand on his hip kneading gently.

“Morning baby,” and the roughness of Jason’s tone sends a thrill of _something_ through his belly, something comfortable, something strangely _normal_ and—

Like his body _knows_ without his brain telling it, he pushes back against Jason’s front, disregarding the towel still around the bouncer’s waist and sighs into the kisses, the mouth and slightly stubbled jaw working back up to right below his ear.

He turns (and hopes the morning breath isn’t that bad) just enough to let Jason press a final kiss on his mouth.

“Brought you coffee. Put a little cream and sugar in it,” Jason presses one more kiss to his mouth and goes back to nose at the skin behind his ear.

“You must be a mind reader,” Robin admits, shuddering into the oddly affectionate touch. “I’m shit in the morning before coffee.”

Jason hums, the hand coming off his hip to reach the bedside stand and pick up a hand-thrown mug to bring a few inches from Robin’s face. He moves with the motions as Robin takes the offering and tilts his head up enough to sip without spilling on himself or the bed.

Damn. It’s _perfect_. Not even _Tam_ could make his coffee how he likes it.

The hand is back on his hip and Jason presses a final kiss to a shoulder blade before he eases back a little, props his cheek up to watch Robin drink from over his arm.

Of course, Robin drains the mug with a satisfied sigh, puts it back on the stand and relaxes, rolling to lay on his back and look up at the man over him. His heart picks up at the small smile on Jason Todd’s face, and the urge to run his fingers through the shock of white in his red hair makes him clench the bedsheet to keep from really doing it.

“Thank-you,” he tries instead, “I…I really _needed_ this.”

Jason hums, looking down with _that smile_ , “makes two of us, baby. That was a helluva good time.”

And Robin knows his cheeks are getting warm, his face pulling into a smile that feels more genuine than anything he’s given in a while. He ducks his head a little to avert his eyes.

And the suddenly blushing shyness is just like some kind of _thing_ because Jason does his level best to make him blush _more_ with the gentle but assertive kiss, opening Robin’s mouth to taste coffee and residual pleasure.

Robin gives in beautifully, those sighs and little moans just the right kind something he’s looking for.

“Stay for a while, lemme make some breakfast. Then a shower, yeah?” In between the slide of lips, the invasion of tongue and taste.

“I…I need to get to work sometime relatively _soon_ ,” he hedges regretfully, trying not to let the suggestion sound like _heaven_. Like maybe he could stay for the day, get Jason to let him get lunch or…dinner ( _what_ the hell is he _thinking_? All of a sudden—!).

Jason hums against his jaw, licking a wet strip, “aw, c’mon with it. That place ain’t gonna fall in if you miss a day.”

Getting a little fuzzy with the warm breath against his neck, Robin bites his lip to keep a ragged moan from escaping. “What place?”

And Jason raises his head, looms over a little, “Wayne Enterprises. They got enough people to keep them floating without you for one _day_.”

And—

Robin’s eyes go wide, his chest seizing abruptly in panic—

“Mr. Drake-Wayne, I presume,” Jase drawls out, “your mask fell off while we were sleeping.”

Robin’s ( _Tim Drake’s_ ) sharp intake of air, his muscles coiled and tense automatically— and his hand goes up to feel the bare skin around his eyes, and—

 _Fuck! No one was supposed to know_ —the possible repercussions of _this_ little piece of _stupid_ start taking up his mental processes immediately; everything from whatever blackmail could demand to the possibility of cameras somewhere in this apartment (and wouldn’t Bruce just _love_ to know what he’s been doing away from the office?).

But Jason Todd is apparently a man full of surprises.

The kiss this time takes him by complete surprise, Jason ravenous at his mouth, wrapping his tongue around Tim’s to slide and pull, fitting them together with _perfection_. And for long, _impossibly long_ , moments, he’s lost in the haze of Jason’s talented mouth and hands claiming him as sure as he did last night.

“Don’t care about names,” finally comes out with an inch or so between their mouths, “don’t make a damn bit of different. This man, the one with those eyes? That’s the guy I’m in this bed with, you feel me?”

Tim moans a little against his mouth when Jason’s calloused hand slides up the inside of this thigh and over his hip.

“We’re gonna lay here for a while, then you’re gonna put on those old sweats and lemme make you breakfast,” Jase’s hand start to work Tim’s half-hard cock, easy, slowly, “and then you’re gonna call your office, tell ‘em you got the Bubonic Plague, ain’t coming in. Sorry ‘bout it. Naw, fuck, not really.”

“A-and then what?” Robin asks, trying to catch his breath while Jason’s eyes heat up with _promise_.

“And _then_ you’re gonna need a shower. Lemme help you get _clean_ so’s I can take you to dinner, maybe a movie depending on your tastes, that is.”

And back to it (because _this_ could be a terrible idea—a _terrible_ risk), taste and touch, his hips moving to increase the frictions, to get _more_.

“An’ if you decide you like all that,” mouth against his neck again while Jason shifts, to lean over, rest a forearm over his shoulder, and those _eyes_ , everything so close, and— “we’ll just keep doing it until you _don’t_. Sound good baby?”

 _Fuck this is a bad idea_.

Robin… _Tim_ lifts his legs to wrap around Jason’s waist, shutting his mental processes down to arch up and _grind_ against the man hovering over him. What he’s going to _do_ is take the offer, always time to negotiate the little things. Always time to up the stakes; that’s how it works in business. Sometimes, you have to take the risk to get any yield.

He licks his lips, “how about: I flip you over and I _ride_ you until we’re both a nice pile of satisfaction. That’s first,” and one of Jason’s brows arches, his smile getting more smug and more _dirty_ with promise. “Then, I’m going to drink all your coffee and judge your cooking by how many things you didn’t burn.” And _Tim_ lifts himself again, working, grinding their erections together, only the thin towel keeping skin from skin.

Jase gasps, ducks down, “gotta lot of coffee, Robin. Might take a while.”

And Tim’s hands slide down Jason’s sides, taking the towel and _much better_. “Challenge accepted. And…yeah, _Tim_. I’m… Tim.”

Jason moves in tandem, presses them together, cutting off thought processes and _plans_ with his mouth and hands, and just _God_ , **_God_** this could possibly be the _best_ /worst idea ever—

Jason grips him and rolls without lifting up from Tim’s mouth, hands are everywhere again, the back of his neck and down his shoulder, his spine, gripping his ass, holding him open to slide over the opening to his body with nefarious _intent_.

“Well Tim,” Jason finally manages, “looks like we’re in for a good day.”

And that just—the smile cutting across the younger man’s face is boyishly handsome and he sits up to work himself, move his hips like he’s up on stage and it’s time to be _free_.

Jason’s hands just rest in those indents, following the motion, groaning aloud.

“As long as you realize, I’m always right about movie choices? Yeah, good day.” And he smiles again, something genuine, something _real,_ and sighs as he takes Jason into his body—idly thinking some risks might pay off.


	22. 21: No Home for Dead Birds VII, VIII, and IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VII: “I’m sorry,” Clark says again, like it actually makes things better.  
> Drabble, The Last TItan Standing: “I’m calling it.”  
> VIII: And even with all the new and improved, it’s really a comfort that, some things? They don’t really change.  
> IX: “Cassie, this is the men’s room.”  
> Drabble, Dick Grayson (by request from impossiblephantonwhispers): The logo on the front of a double string helix with the words “Checks itself before it wrecks itself” below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These have been on Tumblr for a minute, but yeah. There is some movement here. I needed to do some little things and get them off the plate before I hit the longer things. I kind of want to get Forward Momentum done first tho :/

# 7:

_a/n: because Travelfan asked it to be so_

Once upon a time, he was part of something _bigger_.

Sometimes he forgets how good it was, Bart and Kon right _there_ after a big fight, patching his human ass up, finding catches in the utility belt, working around the security—

Because _skin_ was the ultimate goal.

The three of them kept it on the down-low, away from the others, away from the mentors, diverting the World’s Greatest Detective away from the realization. They hadn’t wanted it to become a _problem_ in the eyes of the JLA; something that could have the potential to ruin the team effort or circumvent the point of resurrecting The Titans. Bart always bitched about the double-standard, Clark and Di could fuck whenever _they_ wanted to. Kon had just rolled with the punches, only forgetting when worry for one of them overrode the need for secrecy. Tim, well, Tim had enjoyed giving and receiving attention, affection, comradery, everything that came with their mutually beneficial arrangement. Those two are his best friends; really, there was never a _reason_ they couldn’t be lovers along with fighters. Each of them knew how to handle both sides of the _life_.

Initially, when he wanted to get serious with Dick, they _understood_ , supported him, and reverted back to his best friends without a hitch. They let him be monogamous, careful not to overstay their welcome in the Perch when Dick came to the Tower. 

Losing Robin ended it. Ended _them_.

In the same way it ended any possibilities between him, Kon, and Bart. After the hard choices had been made and the consequences dealt out—Tim wouldn’t share anyone’s bed again—Bart and Kon by circumstances; Dick by choice.

And part of those consequences: without a cape, he couldn’t be a Titan. Without Batman backing him, the JLA was lost. Clark looked hesitant, Diana refused to meet his eyes (Jason never had to deal with this shit), Arthur just twirled his trident and nodded when they dropped the news literally the night after he left Gotham when Dami came out in the new and improved Robin uniform. Barry—Barry was the only one that pointedly looked at him and shook his head, disagreeing.

“So—“

“I’m sorry, Tim,” is Clark’s only response.

“I have another pseud.” Did they think the new tunic is for _show_?

“It’s not because of _you_ ,” Diana goes on.

 _It’s not you, you’re just not Robin_. _But—_

“I’m sorry,” Clark says again, like it actually makes things _better_.

 

“I get it,” and his voice has gone quiet, dangerous, making Clark straighten and Diana’s shoulder tighten. The Batman’s protégé, just another good soldier, tossed aside like a rancid meat bag (“You coulda been _my_ Robin. You coulda kept your cape and your city and your _place_. No one would have taken if from you. I wouldn’ta let that shit happen, you feel me?” Yeah? Well, fuck you, Jason. This is still preferable to being under your thumb).

“We’ve decided agree to Batman’s request and give the… _new_ Robin a chance with the team, see how he’s going to do,” and Vic sounds remotely uncomfortable.

“In light of that, it wouldn’t be a good idea to have you _both_ on the team,” Clark is aware of their history, the blood and bashing. They don’t want conflict in The Titans. _Out with the old_. “Tim—“

He turns his back, the cape and cowl still strange at this juncture. No more wind in his hair. The harness is too loose, meant for Jason, the utility belt has a busted compartment in the back.

“Decision made then,” he says to the door just as he starts moving toward it.

“You could be a consultant,” Arthur calls out, trying to be helpful, to give some _options_. “You’re smart, Tim, always have been.”

He stops cold. Tim Drake, the one he is quickly _becoming_ , is carefully controlled when he’s reached the limit; however, his strike-back is something to _remember_. The urge is there because: a _consultant_. To the new Robin. To the team he used to lead.

A reply would be insulting—to him and the Titans—so he just keeps on walking, leaving Titan’s Tower ( _home_ ) where they’d ambushed him with a verbal eviction notice. He didn’t look back as the plane rose out of the roof access. The Red Robin is just a mask he’s going to wear for the moment, just long enough to find Bruce, redeem himself, and then he’s going to tell the rest of the superhero community to _get fucked_.

**

After the greyhound incident, he’s in another anonymous city, finding the shadows, digging into the deep darkness with both hands, clawing, straining against the spread. Fighting it with teeth and bone.

The hovering always gets on his nerves. Always.

Looking down from his perch, waiting for the bumbling assholes to _finally_ get into the bank and give him something to do, he doesn’t bother giving Superman the benefit of his attention.

“It’s been a while,” the alien tries. “I was hoping you could spare me a few minutes.”

Then _more_ fumbling to open a window, to shoving each other with the half-assed attempts to get inside; noob criminals aren’t usually _this_ fun to watch. He does, however, spare an extra few seconds to give an extended pointer finger, showing Clark _east_.

“Um—?”

“Gotham is that way.” He fills in nonplussed.

“I—yes, Tim, yes it is.”

“Then you should get going. I’m going to have a robbery to stop.” There. Maybe that should make things obvious.

Clark, _invulnerable_ as he fucking _is_ , sometimes forgets to slow his reactions down and things flicker too fast to for the regular humans to catch because the alien is blocking his view, his straight line down to the ground. He’s hover slightly low, putting them on the same height. It’s a tactile move since, well, apparently something is brewing in superhero community land.

“I came here to talk to _you_ , Tim, not Damian.”

“Then you’ve wasted the trip.” His eyes are for around the alien’s arm, watching the progress with more interest than whatever brought Clark here.

“Tim, please, I know you took the thing with the Titans personally—“

_Was there another way to take it?_

“We’re done here.” He interrupts, filling the space between them with the result of disappointment and disillusionment; his childhood favorites have fallen by the wayside, and it all happened so quickly.

He moves to the side, a plain line in one fist, no grapples anymore. Away from the Bat, away from Robin, away from everything that used to be like putting on a worn hoodie, comfortable and familiar.

Clark moves with him, stares up, probably seeing past the domino.

“I understand you’re upset—”

“No, you obviously _don’t_.” So he leans down, puts himself face-to-face with the Kryptonian, someone he used to _respect_ , “so I’ll put it together for you. I’m _out_ of your game. The JLA handed down their edict, and I’ve _complied_. Anything to do with the Titans, the JLA, the Bats, all of it—I’m _done_. Don’t come asking for help. Don’t come with my old files. Don’t come asking for a fucking _consultation_.”

Clark grimaces, realizing _that_ hit a _nerve_.

“Tim, Tim _please_ , I know it sounded like we didn’t—“

“The JLA threw me out of the Titans to keep the peace. So what if Dick kept his team with a new pseud, but I assume that’s what _happens_ when a Robin gets _chosen_.” (Read as _wanted_ ). His voice is flat, removed; still that old pain is _sharp_ , biting, but it’s started to heal in the last few months. Now, he can look forward without flinching.

Flinching like Clark is doing—right now.

“You and the JLA made that call. Now deal with your own problems.” He threw the line over Clark’s head, side-stepping to jump while Superman hovered in the same spot, wide-eyed.

He doesn’t need a _cape_. Dark, non-descript clothes, domino, gloves, storage. With Drake Industries still in his back pocket, he could have _better_ , advanced. He’s not there yet, not where he needs to be. He doesn’t _want_ to be there yet. Too much Bat. Just sturdy boots, steel-toed. The wind is in his hair again,

He’s not taking out more than run-of-the-mill crazies and criminals. He’s not out-thinking the Joker, taking down Killer Crock, up against the Church of the Blood, or N.O.W.H.E.R.E. He’s not really even pushing himself to keep _track_ as hard as he should be, not monitoring with the extents he had been a few months ago (well, the JLA could do it themselves now—with Batman _back_ , they have the manpower).

One laptop, isolated from the Bats. Monitoring only the baddest of the bad. The rest of the small fish are everyone else’s responsibility.

He ties up the would-be bank robbers and hits the alarms on his way _out_. Sirens will start and the damn day will be saved.

Taking the harder way around, working more of the physical, has helped ease the edges of pain; if anything, he can take the fire escapes faster than ever before.

He’s not outrunning Superman though. That shit is never going to happen—not unless he wants to go to a certain storage locker and pick up the fancy green meteorite.

“You’ve already got your answer,” he doesn’t bother to look back at the following superhero.

“Would it help if I said Dick didn’t send me?” The alien moves a little so he’s in the peripheral rather than right behind.

“I don’t give a fuck _who_ sent you,” body arches in the leap, cutting through the air, landing in a roll, coming right back to his feet without a hitch. Turn on his heels so he’s facing Clark again, “but apparently I’m not being _clear_ enough.”

The Man of Steel looks like he’s eaten something bitter.

“I am _done_ with this shit. _Done,_ Clark. Fuck the Bats and _fuck_ the JLA. Handle your _own_ shit from now on.” Because, yeah, yeah, he is _done_. Setting up massive redirects to all the JLA’s systems, keeping their inventory updated, keeping their records organized, keeping the Bats funded and—and—

Nope. Not his _fucking problem_.

The alien is staring down at him with wide eyes, actually _fidgeting_. “You’re—“ and it’s shocked, quiet— “really _not_ coming back, are you?”

And Tim sees it there: Dick came back. Jason fucking came back. Damian came back. Well, isn’t he the progressive one all of a sudden?

And Tim (because _why bother with a name? There’s no one that would use it_ ) just stares behind the domino, amazed at how much Clark thought he could realistically _take_ before he _gets it_.

“No,” he finally comes out with, “no. I’m not coming back.”

“…Bruce said he isn’t giving up on you.”

The gloves are still leather, so the sound of his fists tightening is a slight sigh, “he’s the only one. He’ll give it up soon enough.” Because, really, at this point, family is based on blood and choice, isn’t it?

“Conner and Bart—“

“Did what they had to do. We’ve all had to deal with the outcome, and the JLA can do just _that_.”

“What if—“ Clark hurries.

“No. Like I would come _back_ just for the JLA to throw me away again? Maybe I just _assumed_ Dick already told you I’m not fucking _crazy_.”

“If you come back, the others will too,” the alien tries to placate, to give _justification_.

But Tim has no _fucking clue_ what he’s talking about.

Clark apparently thinks he _does_ and just goes on with more _authority_ , “Bart and Conner are still in the wind. Cassie Sandsmark hasn’t contacted Diana since she returned the lasso and uniform. We have no idea where Garfield or Rachel are. Titan’s Tower has been abandoned, but if—“

_What now?_

“Why the _fuck_ is the Tower _abandoned_?” He spits back, gears churning. If they didn’t get “along” with the new Robin, would their mentors just…kick them out, too?

Apparently _something_ happened.

Clark stops, staring. “You… Tim, you don’t _know?_ None of them have come to find you?”

And silence, the unblinking stare behind the domino has Clark looking sheepish, “I—I’m _sorry_. I thought they may have come to _you_ and—“

“Why. Did. They. _Leave_?” _God, if he had kryptonite right now_ , but the sick bile churning in his gut is all about making some _plans_. If Clark, Diana, and Wally just threw his friends out the _fucking door_ like Dick did to _him_ , then he was going to seriously put the _contingencies_ into _play_ —

“They gave up their superhero identities and left the Titans,” Clark admitted low and gave a paranoid glance around, “They… aren’t our sidekicks anymore. It’s—we’re _worried_ about them, Tim, and I was hoping you might know something or maybe have seen them. Is there anywhere _not_ out in the open we can talk?”

But, he has the answers he needed. The blanks he can fill in himself.

“I’ve had enough talking,” he starts moving away, processing the new data (they’re all gone now), “go back to your team, Clark.”

“Tim, can I just have—“

“No.” He doesn’t even pause. No need to.  He’s _out_ of the big leagues, remember?

But Clark doesn’t follow regardless, just stares with something thoughtful in his expression.

**

The JLA’s second try is more underhanded than the first since, you know, they’re a team all about _results_.

He’s already moved to the next city, comes back with the traces of dawn riding his ass. It doesn’t take a smart guy (just one with an eidetic memory and a history of crime fighting) to realize he hadn’t left the window open. Not even a crack.

From the rooftop across the alley from his current _habitation_ , he stares into the windows, waiting. The shadows are being replaced so quickly, but—

He sighs, watching the movements around the tiny and ultimately sparse kitchenette; a pot of coffee is fresh, and the choice to get it over with or put up with more _effort_ next time is the topper of the night.

Ultimately, there shouldn’t be a _next time_. Not for them. Those choices were taken out of _his_ hands.

He hits the fire escape gently since he could almost be seen by passersby and opens the window enough to slide in (no more cape, less chance to trip).

Blue eyes look up from the ratty table, hands clenched around the fresh cup of coffee—so tight his knuckles are _white_. And it is Dick Grayson, not Nightwing, not Batman, not the acrobat, not the ward, not the cop.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

They should have a sleep deprivation anonymous meeting, seriously.

And it’s a crazy thing, the two of them standing a few feet apart, silently staring at one another—a vigilante and a “civilian.” A quick mask change would alter the dynamic, bring them back to a place that had _years_ to grow. All that history, worthless. _Lies_.

Long moment of silence when Dick finally realizes Tim isn’t saying _anything_.

“Hi,” the older chokes out, “I—I _called_ so many times and... I was just—I was _worried_ , Tim, so, ah, here I am.”

And it’s really a _talent_ to get the eyes of a face mask to narrow, but once you’ve worn one for so many years, it really does become habit.

“Worried,” he repeats dully.

“Yes! Did you…get any of my messages?” And Dick’s eyes are so, _so_ blue. That intense color when he right on the cusp of an incredible orgasm—

“There’s nothing left to say,” should answer just about everything, including the _am I welcome in Timmy’s squatter’s nest?_ No, Dick, you aren’t. Hopefully, the older man feels just about as comfortable here and Tim has come to feel in Wayne Manor, in Wayne Tower, in the Cave, in _Gotham_. (No home for dead birds, right?)

 _I used to lay naked with this man. I used to put my weaknesses and vulnerabilities in his fucking **hands**_.

“Tim,” and Dick breathes it out like his strength is giving way, like he can see the thoughts churning.

“You should go,” he turns his back, going to the single bedroom to get out of the clothes. “There’s nothing for you here.”

The sound of the chair scraping doesn’t stop him, the footsteps running. He waits long enough to dodge out of the way, circumventing Dick’s _surprise hug_ maneuver (one that _used to_ work when he just stood in place and let it happen). The older of the two is devastated by the denial, but that’s just _Dick_. His idea of fixing this shit is to try piecing the broken bits together with old feelings (and _did he ever really…?_ Is what Tim can _see_ now that he’s been gone for a while) like that shitty paste from kindergarten. Dick is going to try smothering him with hugs and affection, like Tim is every going to believe any of that shit was _real_.

“You have to listen to me,” low and urgent, the two of them facing off in the dimly lit hallway, pressing back against paper thin tenement walls.

“How fucking difficult is it to _understand_ , Dick? We have **_nothing_** to talk about. You have Nightwing, Bruce is the Bat, and he has a Robin. The Titans are apparently in the wind, but at least there’s a Robin there for the next generation. That’s it. I’ve nothing else to give.” He counters calmly, priding himself on _not_ letting the urge to punch Dick in the face take over.

“None of it, _none of it_ gave you the excuse to leave the family!” Dick snaps back, “you just—you just!”

“Fuck. You.” Tim pulls the domino away, so the reality is right in front of Dick’s face. “Fuck _you_ , Dick. _I_ left the family. Sure. You want to think that? No problem. Whatever helps you _sleep_ at night.”

“I didn’t come here to fight.”

“You shouldn’t have come here at all.”

“ _Tim_ , I still _care_ —“

“This, _this right now_ , isn’t happening. You wanted to JLA to shut me out of the Titans, done. You let Damian push me out of the Manor and the Cave, _done_.  You wanted the _right_ Robin, the blooded one? _Done_. You got _what you fucking wanted._ I’m out of Gotham, so you can go the fuck back to your family.”

Mouth working without sound, Dick is just blinking at him.

Quietly, Tim takes enough of a step to put them closer, “you really didn’t think I wouldn’t figure it out after all this? Where my place is, always has been. It’s _fine_ , you know. Now that I _get it_. You didn’t have to lower yourself to _fucking me_ just to keep me in place until the next Robin came along. That…that was a _shitty_ thing to do.”

“No, Timmy, no, no, no, that’s not—that was **_never why_** —“ Dick’s hands are just wrapping around his biceps, squeezing hard enough that the bruises are going to be good ones, deep purple and blue.

But, _no_. He doesn’t have _that right anymore_ , and Tim just pulls out an old memory, dusts it off a little, and steps away from the boy Dick Grayson had known. Faster than he was a year ago, Tim gives a good one in the bad knee and wrenches away at the same time, taking a few more steps down the hall while Dick gives a harsh breath out, backs off.

Tim lets out a shaky breath himself. “I’m not going back. Whatever you think you need me for, there are others. Ask one of them. Babs or Damian or the JLA. Leave me the hell out of it.”

Dick swallows, staring at him, and that crushed look on his face could be _real_. “Tim… I didn’t sleep with you because I wanted to keep you in the family. You _have_ to believe that. I didn’t take advantage of you that way—I _wouldn’t_.”

“I’ve said all I’m going to,” because he’s _done_ with this. Done with Dick, done with the Bats, done with _their world_. Damian can fucking _have it_.

“Tell me what I have to do to make you believe me,” Dick counters. “None of it, all the _years_ we’ve been partners, friends, brothers. All of that was real, Tim. It’s _still_ real. I wouldn’t be here if I just wanted some _kid_ in the uniform.”

Tim just stands, stares with narrowed eyes, hands working at his sides, ready to go toe-to-toe if that’s what has to happen here.

“I’m not leaving until you answer me.”

After a moment of staring at Dick’s face, of the _pain_ , the old hurt, Tim Drake breathes out and his body relaxes, his expression smooths out into neutral lines. “Two years ago, I would have believed you,” and his voice is so quiet, wobbly, “back then if you would have _talked_ to me, treated me like—“ and he falters, blinking away from Dick’s face. “I—there is no reason to go back. I’m not _that_ Tim Drake anymore. I have nothing left to give you, any of you. Dick, I…I fulfilled my role as Robin; I _saved_ Batman from himself. I helped a shit-ton of people, but I can’t go _back_. There’s nothing for me to go back _to_.” He closes his eyes against the terrible expression on Dick’s face, “I have nowhere to go but forward.”

And Tim’s _that’s how it is now_ just breaks something in Dick Grayson, the older man staring at his former brother, friend, lover, and bites the inside of his cheek when his eyes get hot. He slowly steps closer, slowly, _so slowly_ moves enough that he’s in arm’s reach, forcing himself not to flinch at the emptiness, the old and bitter failures between them.

“Let me—“ he has to swallow down the self-recriminations, the ones making his voice break, “let me stay with you for a while. Just—Just let me _stay_ —“

“Out of the question.” His answer is immediate, no give, not anymore.

Dick is just staring at him, heartbroken. Everything, _everything_ is so broken…

Tim turns, weirded out by the staring, the Bat stillness. He closes his bedroom door, making the change fast, waiting, hoping Dick will just _leave_ because _fuck_ it does still _hurt_.

“I’m not giving up on you,” Dick calls through the door. “You can’t make me, Tim.”

Pulling the nerd t-shirt over his head, the words strike him right where the old wounds _bleed_.

Dick jerks a little when the door is wrenched open, Tim’s eyes darker than he’s ever seen them, lined with secrets—

“You gave up on me two years ago, Dick. I think you’re a little late with this shit _now_.”

And dammit, he can see it. Every line in Tim’s body, the carefully neutral expression on his face. Jason’s words haunt him again _“he ain’t gonna come back. Not for **you**.”_

Dick Grayson fears Jason might have been right.

**

Tim opens the window and Dick steps out onto the ratty fire escape, turns back to try one last time, but the window is shut in his face. The blind draws down, leaving him cold.

It’s for the best. Tim Drake, the one they all used to know, is a guy left behind in the gutters of Gotham City; that vigilante got the shit kicked out of him for the last time. Hemorrhaging is a terrible way to go.

When the present-day Tim turns around after Dick takes the fire escape down, he blinks, stills. Sitting on the nasty, musty couch, Conner Kent and Bart Allen are looking back at him with soft puppy eyes; both teenagers happy to see him still moving, still _alive_.

“Hey,” Bart calls gently with a wave. He’s in a t-shirt and khakis, his mass of hair longer than the last time.

Conner, white shirt, jeans, work boots, is grinning wide and white, “hope it’s cool if we crash with you, man. We need to have a little talk.”

# 7.5 No Home for Dead Birds Drabble: Last Titan Standing

“Why the _fuck_ weren’t we consulted about this?”

That’s the thing about the superhero community; when they start up with the group mentality, those _teams_ tended to earn these things like _loyalty_. That happens when you continually risk your ass for that _stupid_ motherfucker that just risks his or her own in retaliation.

It’s a good thing, for teams to have each other’s backs—unless the dissention in the ranks comes from the _outside_.

That said, the current Kid Flash, Bart Allen, has had just about _enough_ of this _fuckery_.

Sure, he enjoys being on the team, _enjoys_ having the name Kid Flash, but he’s already _thinking_ about the Impulse suit put away in the place ( _his place_ ) Max (before he _vanished_ ) set-up for him outside of the JLA and _away_ from Wally (per his own request Bart had to find out later). Jay and Joan knew he had a place _somewhere_ , but the two never really asked for any details, just respected when he needed his space. When Deathstroke took out his knee, he hadn’t thought the KF suit would be there, hovering in his peripheral.

Sometimes it’s nice to wrong about shit; sometimes, it feels like a noose around his neck.

Gar looks vaguely in _shock_. Raven, beside him is even more still—first indication of _not good_ from the senior members (well, both had been through the generations of _Robins_ and what’s happening now? It’s a first and _not_ in the good way).

Frowning, Diana glances at Clark before laying it out, “we had a valid reason for all of this.”

“You didn’t _ask_ ,” Kon interrupts again, emphasizing the _main point_. His eyes are narrow and muscles tight, looking a _lot_ like he might be in the _beat shit to a pulp_ kind of mood. “You kicked him out of the Tower without consulting _any of us_. Like we don’t have a say in _our own_ team. Anyone want to explain that part of it?”

“Conner,” Clark holds up both hand, trying to calm the volatile situation (the worst for him really, these aren’t things that need super anything but patience), “you’re right. We should have consulted the team, but it was hard enough to tell him—did all of you really want to be here when we did?”

“You bet your _ass_ I would have. That guy is my best _friend_.”

“How can you even _ask_ that?”

“Oh? So the JLA has the right to make _that_ call?”

“Clark, really dude, what do you _think?_ ”

“You conclusion is _unacceptable_.”

The five young adults are on their feet, talking at once.

Wally shakes his head a little—he was the deciding vote at the time and he went with it because it was _Dick_ asking. The guy worn the hell out, trying to make all the right decisions for the right _reasons_ , and he could sympathize. Bruce Wayne had some shoes to _fill_ and he _got that_ since he’s taken on the Flash…

“We get it,” he sighs and the Titans look over at him, subtly moving to face-off in case things get _heated_. “It was wrong. Tim deserved better, yes, that’s true. I’m sorry for how that happened, but Batman was _trying_ to keep the new Robin stable at the time. He’s a ten-year old _kid_ with a lot of baggage, and Tim’s more mature. We thought he could handle it better than Damian.”

He gives a Gallic shrug, meaning everything and nothing.

Gar puts a hand up, his normal _chill, dude_ demeanor gone. He’s the guy that lead for a while when Cassie needed to get her head on straight again, and the gravity of _this_ little sitch pisses him right the hell off.

With false calm, Raven makes her feelings on the matter _very clear_ when she actually speaks up, loud enough to be heard throughout the room. “At the time, you could have reminded Dick _every Robin **must**_ be battle-tested for two-to-four years before he or she may join the Titan roster.”

Gar jumps right on _that_ train, “You also could have told _Dick_ the kid is _ten_ and the majority of us are about to be in our _twenties_. Let him start-up a group of younger dudes.”

Arthur’s brow goes up, his gaze flickering over to Hal. Both stay silent.

“You could have told Dick,” Bart finally decides to muscle in, “that _we_ are going to make that decision since _we’re_ the ones actually on the _fucking team_.”

Wally frowns at him, but Bart glares right the hell back. Sure, he _gets it_. Dick and Wally, him and Tim. KF and Robin have always been close, and the two speedsters are gonna have to _agree to mother **fucking** disagree_ on who’s best friend is in the right here.

Dick because he was _Batman_ at the time?

Fuck.

That.

Shit.

Cassie, who had decided to give the JLA a moment to _at least_ justify their actions, takes up the command spot when her spine straightens and she tells Diana with her eyes how _very_ disappointed she is to find out this way. Pointedly, she turns her back on the daughter of Zeus, facing her team.

“I’m calling it,” she glances at each of them, putting the JLA out of the _important things_ category. “We’re going to get him.”

Bart visibly fist pumps, and regardless of the mentors standing in their Commons Room after this nice _let’s share_ moment (when they came to inform of Bruce’s return to the Batman mantle, and Dick taking a curious leave of absence from the Gotham scene for a while), the team stands as a unit and _move_. 

Damian will remain Robin. Tim Drake is in the wind.

That’s when things started going downhill, and the truth comes out.

“Well, the old Batman is taking up the cape? That means Red can come back,” he and Kon had pretty much gone off the deep end for _that_ possibility.

“ _Dude_ , we can totally find him in like, a snap, and let him know.”

“Shit, yeah! Original YJ in the _house_.”

Cue the buzzkill when Arthur rained _shit_ all over their parade. “No one has conferred with the Batman about reinstating Tim Drake’s permissions to be in the Tower.”

 _That_? Totally killed the “Welcome Back Party” buzz because all of them, the whole damn team, turned to stare at the sparse gathering of the senior JLA because of things like _permissions_ and _reinstating_. Like they were insinuating Tim hadn’t _come back_ because he’d been kicked the fuck out of the Tower or some—

 _Oh_. **_OH!_** _Oh, really now?_

And Kon? Kon has been _pissed off_ before, sure. Superboy Prime being a dick bag, Luthor’s shitty plots to use him to _kill_ people, and the list could really go on for a while, but the difference between these types of anger? He _expects_ criminals to do _shitty_ things—it’s why they’re the bad guys. He seriously never expects the _good guys_ to do something almost equally as _shitty_ (especially to one of their _own_ ). He doesn’t _just_ get that special kind of angry, he gets the extreme _disappointed-in-you_ kind of angry (which is really a recipe for disaster).

So, Cassie is apparently on _that_ vibe, glancing over the four of them.

“Wait,” Diana tries to placate when they all start to move because Cassie put the “Where’s Tim?” game into play, “we must confer with Batman on whether or not we can allow you to bring Tim Drake to the Tower. I am sorry, everyone, please believe me when I say we all respect his sacrifices, _but_ —“

“You’re telling us who we can and _can’t_ bring on our team?” And _that’s_ …Gar is the most easy going member of the Titans when it comes to the JLA; he’s only going to get motivated to fight or help out _in a fight_ , but will chill the fuck out for the rest of his time.

But, their green compatriot strolls right up in Diana’s _face_ and stares without flinching. “Is _that_ how it’s going to _go_?”

“Garfield,” Clark wishes Vic had come along, but now understands why their other senior member ruthlessly told them he wasn’t getting involved in this _mess_. “You need to understand—“

“Here’s what _I understand_ ,” Gar’s gaze snaps over to the Man of Steel, “I _understand_ you threw a good guy, _one of us_ , out on his ass. I _understand_ that the JLA is asserting some kind of _right_ to control not only _us_ but who _we_ chose to fight with. I _understand_ that you guys seriously made a bad _call_. Oh,” Gar takes them all in, his spine straight, fists at his side, “and I _understand_ that you just lost _this guy_ because you obviously have no respect for any of us. Nice working with you, _dude_.”

With a wave, Gar steps back, and turns toward the elevator, ready to head out.

The air around them on the Communal Floor turns _frigid_ , Raven’s eyes peering out from under her cloak, “remove us from your superhero community roster. I believe we are both _done_ working _for you_.” And yes, yes she does _mean it_. To Rachel, the use of illusions (a favored weapon of her Father) are tantamount to _evil_ , and the JLA giving the illusion of equality while pulling some kind of rank just makes her _angry_ down to her bones.

She floats after Garfield idly, taking her time while Clark’s eyes get _huge_ and Arthur stands up, blinking in shock. Raven and Beast Boy are senior Titans, have been with the group since the first inception under Dick Grayson’s Robin, and _this_ —

Cassie’s jaw clenches, and she lifts a forearms, releasing the arm guards one at a time. Diana’s eyes go wide, gasping as the lasso, _Wonder Girl’s_ lasso, is removed. The items are laid at her feet carefully, and Cassie Sandsmark pulls the Wonder Girl t-shirt over her head, holds it out to drop at Diana’s feet.

“This cannot stand,” And it’s not a child, a subject of the monarchy; she’s another Amazon, a demigoddess, “it will _not_ stand, Diana. Not anymore.”

And Diana is _floored_ , looking from the discarded uniform to the young woman. “Cassie, this is all a misunderstanding. This—”

“There is no misunderstanding, Princess. It was an honor serving with you.” Cassie, in her white tank top, turns on her heel, walking past the others on her way out.

Diana straightens, biting her lip. The discarded clothes on the floor mocking her, remaining untouched.

Kon nods to himself and pulls the black t-shirt, the crest of the House of El, folds it, and lays it on the end table right by Clark’s hand. “Yeah, we’re not going to do this. Get your next generation ready.”

“ _Conner_ ,” Clark grips his wrist desperately, “please, give up Superboy, but don’t—don’t _do_ this—“

Kon-El sneer, “don’t do what, Clark? Don’t do what’s _right_? Aren’t you the one that told me doing the right thing wasn’t always easy but _necessary_?”

“We haven’t— Conner, we really _didn’t_ _mean for this—_ “

Kon pulls his wrist away, “I’m not your son, Clark. I’m a clone, of _you_. You put me here to keep me calm, keep me from going the wrong way. I _get it_. Good plan, but this—“ Kon throws his hand out, gesturing to all this _fuckery_ , “no, man. No. I appreciate what you’ve tried to do, but maybe it’s time for another Superboy. One you can control, I guess since that’s really all the JLA _wants_ from us.”

And the volumes of discord and discomfort between them, feelings that lasted for _years_ before there could be any understanding, is the _real_ reason Clark lets him go.

Wally, with a bitter taste suddenly in his mouth, is already looking down at Bart’s shorter stature just suddenly in front of him, and—

He’s already in the Impulse costume. One that _fits_. This—this isn’t a spur of the moment thing, is it? With shaky hands (because Bart is his _little dude,_ and just _fuck_ the day he _gave_ Bart _this_ — _his_ original KF suit), he accepts the folded Kid Flash uniform and goggles, looking from it and back to Bart’s face, and all he can think of is how _crushing_ this is, how _this_ shouldn’t be the way they part, the way Bart _grows up_.

“It was a good ride, Wally, thanks,” and Bart gives him a nod before joining the rest of the Titans at the elevator.

The JLA stands staunch and solemn as the Titans disband, leaving the Tower to lock-down, to be filled with some _other_ heroes that would be cowled under the foot of those that thought themselves always _bigger, smarter,_ and _more right_.

When the elevator closes, takes them to the roof for one last send-off, the group turns to face one another.

“Okay, soooo, I didn’t expect all of you to fall on your swords with me, ‘kay?” Gar flips his holoprojector so the green skin is smooth mocha, the hair dark as a raven’s wing, claws and fangs just this side of normal. “Seriously, totally a display of team cohesiveness and stuff, but def unnecessary.”

And they all _know_ what’s going on. Gar’s eyes careful while he talks because he is totally _giving them an out here_. Go back to their mentors, take their names back, totes wouldn’t blame you, guy.

Even with the unmentioned offer, none of the others move from the sliding feeling of ascending to the top of the Tower.

Kon shrugs, “Clark never wanted me to be Superboy anyway. It’s fine. John is getting older, so the name can stay in his family.”

Cassie arches a brow at him, “well, at least, _Kara_ will finally be happy.”

“Yup, get the family crest off the reject, right?”

“She’s an asshole,” Bart snarks since he will always, _always_ stand up for his _bro_ , “and apparently stupid. You’re a good guy, Conner.”

“We are all worth more, _better_ ,” Rachel sighs, “this is not how I would have foreseen things would go. The JLA has rarely interfered with deception such as this. I am more _concerned_ than I have ever been.”

“I hate it’s come to this,” Cassie sighs from where she’s leaning against the elevator wall, “but, it’s time we got out from under the JLA anyway, well—“ She blinks up at them, hesitant.

“Agreed,” the others chorus in tandem.

A moment of silence while the doors slide open to the glass room that will open out onto the roof and give them the sky.

“So, are we all just _leaving?”_ Bart finally asks, “because I’m still _totally_ going to go find Tim. He’s out there doing his thing, and I fucking want _in_.”

Conner grins, “I need to talk to the Kents, let them know I’m going to move out soon, and then, yeah. Yeah, I think we have a bird to find.”

Cassie grins a little, “sounds like a plan. I’ve got to settle some things at home too. Call me when we’re ready to reconvene.”

And the three swing their gazes expectantly over the Gar and Rachel, waiting for it.

“You are all a pain in my ass,” Rachel deadpans, tilting her head back enough so they can see her face.

Gar’s eyes blow wide in surprise for a _second_ , and then he _dies_ , rolling around on the floor while his _sides_ hurt, dude, and just, so _blah_ , so _perfect_.

Rachel sighs and clears her throat so she can talk over Gar’s laughter, “what I mean to say _is_ : as long as you will have me, I will fight with you. Call and I will come.”

Cassie bites her lips and abruptly takes the shorter woman in a bruising hug.

“Aw, you like us too much to send us to the carnivorous beat dimension now, just admit it,” Kon teases while Bart’s smile gets huge and his eyes are nothing but fond.

“Perhaps only once a month since you all are such good friends,” Rach pats Cassie on the back and is released. “As such, once you find Tim, call. Gar and I will meet you.”

Said Garfield is finally standing again, flipping a deuce, “totally! Once we find our guy, we’ll get a place to crash, some tech to break, and some baddies to squash. Sound righteous?” He sticks his fist out.

One-by-one, the former Titans lay their hands on top. Unfortunately, the JLA must not be aware—some things just don’t _break_.

**

Once Conner Kent, Cassie Sandsmark, and Bart Allen take off from the Tower for the last time, Garfield Logan and Rachel Roth are left to stare at each other, the tension, the _years_ of dancing around one another, refusing to do much—

Gar’s eyes are darker even with the holoprojectors; he makes an effort to clear his throat, act, you know, _normal._ “Okay, so I guess I’ll see you—?”

Rachel stops him, steps into his space, takes his face into her hands, and presses them together. He blinks for a moment, but his mouth softens against hers, giving in to _this_.

When she finally pulls back, her own eyes dark this time, she speaks only a breath away from his mouth, “I believe, we should…collaborate while the others are finalizing their own plans.”

Once of Gar’s brows arches, “collaborate? Hm, I like the sound of that, Rach.”

And a sly, slow smile spreads across her face, “how satisfying. You may wish to hear my _other_ plans before you decide on how to rate them.”

This time, he’s gripping the side of her face, sliding his mouth over hers, pulling her body more fully against him, and Rachel sighs, makes a small _noise_ perhaps before she raises a hand to the sky:

Azarath

Metrion

**_Zinthos_ **

The two vanish in a burst of dark light, dissipating to leave the sky clear and bright.

 

 

# 8 No Home for Dead Bird VIII

_A/N: I started this at work…and was promptly asked if I was okay because fucking crying, so sadness and feels. Just FYI._

His ass is cold.

The ache in his minor injuries is something ibuprofen probably isn’t going to fix. Too many years of saying _fuck-it_ to actually taking care of himself. The result? He hurts in the mornings (afternoons) before he’s even twenty.

It is what it is.

Tim comes out from unconsciousness, swimming instead of snapping awake, awareness coming in _degrees_.

It’s been almost two years since he’s felt safe enough to wake up with anything other than _ready to fight_. The last time… the last time was waking up in Dick’s arms right after the Battle for the Cowl; Dick had taken Jason out of the running, had come back to the Cave beaten up but clutched the mark of the Batman like a terrible reminder of his new responsibilities. He’d showered, put the cowl up on display in the Cave, and taken Tim to bed, careful of his injuries (because Batarang to the chest is a pretty good way to make sure someone doesn’t get back up), but Dick had held on so _tight_ , talked while the shock still set in, made his blue, blue eyes almost _black._

There was so much, _I can’t, I can’t **do** this._

And his counter _of course you can, you’re the best of us all. The superhero community knows Dick Grayson and Clark Kent are the most trustworthy_.

Dick had accepted that, somewhat pacified, and even though Tim hadn’t understood it at the time, they had made slow, careful love, bare in the dawn, changing positions, touching every inch of skin, licking and tasting, giving and taking, so, _so_ much and not _enough_ at the same time.

He hadn’t realized Dick was telling him with his body what he couldn’t say with his mouth.

 _Good-bye_.

Two nights later, Dick had moved back to his room of the Manor, taken the smaller sundries out of Tim’s bathroom and bedroom, moving everything back, like covering up a dirty secret. The same night Dick said he was sorry for the decisions he would have to make.

More than one, more than a handful.

The feeling of betrayal, of _worthlessness_ , of having to find out all of Dick’s plans by Damian walking out in a new, tailored Robin tunic, the culmination of Dick’s duplicity struck deeper than Jason’s knife in his thigh. Of course, Dick didn’t owe him an explanation, a _reason_ , because he won the cowl fair and square, it was his _right_ as the new Dark Knight to choose his Robin.

But _fuck_ , a little preparation would have been nice. To be treated like an _equal_ instead of just hearing Dick sprout it out while he couldn’t even _look_ Tim in the face (like they had _nothing_ together, like Tim Drake was _nothing_ because another Robin was there to take over _,_ and the realization of his _place_ started making _sense_ ).

After he left, the very _first_ voicemail:

_“I’m sorry how things turned out. I always…you know, I always thought if the worst ever happened like this, it would be you and me…together. Partners. I wanted that, Tim. You don’t know how much I **wanted** that to happen, but I can’t let Damian fall by the wayside. He just lost his Father too, so I hope you can forgive him and maybe me someday, too. Anyway, I know you believe Bruce is alive, and just….*sigh* Tim, be careful. **Please** just be careful.  I’ll be here waiting when you’re ready to come back.”_

On the plane, his throat clogged with _pain_ with this rambling _older brother_ talk, Tim deleted Dick’s message and hasn’t listen to another since.

Things happened, life moved. He’d been evicted from Titan’s Tower, he’d almost given in to Ra’s al Ghul’s seductive influences (since someone wanted him _after all_ ). He almost died a horrific death. He found out what happened to Bruce, cracked the secret _of fucking time travel_ , and planned accordingly. He’d returned to Gotham in time to call his former team and save the loved ones in Bruce’s life. He’d almost died a third ( _fourth? Fifth? Something_ ) time. And fuck if he hadn’t pulled his Father back from some dystopian future to be back where he _belonged_.

Shit had been busy, true, and after all that, the Red Robin went into a drawer to gather dust (because the bird is _dead_ , right?), next to the Robin tunic—the _other_ one.

It’s fine now. He’s had time to adapt, to keep moving regardless of the hard realizations (safety net? It was never _real_ anyway). He’s done good things, been in the right place at the right time, pulled intel to make sure _impending doom and destruction_ was thrown into the right radar.

He’s becoming his own brand of vigilante, not a carbon copy, not playing by the Bat rules, but his own designs.

Life is starting to break somewhat even.

**

And even with all the _new and improved_ , it’s really a comfort that, _some_ things? They don’t really _change._

Bart still hogs all the covers. It’s the deal with speedsters once they _stop moving_ ; the cold sets in. Dick had talked about Wally this way, about the need to smother him in blankets and hand warmers after a bad span of fighting. He’d adopted those protocols after the first few missions, watching Impulse crash and crash _hard_ after using a mass of his energy and just come to a— _stop_.

At nights in his bed, or in Bart’s (Kon’s? always too messy to even _try it_ ), he and Kon already gave up on having any kind of cover by morning, greeted by Bart the burrito.

And in just his boxers and t-shirt (bandages from injuries notwithstanding), the one closest to the door by rote ( _again, some things don’t change_ ), he doesn’t have shit for covers because Bart is wrapped up in the ratty blanket, obscuring Kon’s face but not the curve of shoulder and arm.

A wonderful, _terrible_ pang strikes him _deep_ before he’s snapping to like when he was _that_ Robin and instincts are kicking in, kicking _him_ , changing in degrees, because he _gave this up_ _for the wrong reasons_ and _they shouldn’t be here_ and _he’s not that Tim anymore_. The varying reasons accompanied by the various reactions are fighting for dominance. Try to go back to sleep, pretend you still _have this_ ; get out of bed and _leave them to it_ , move to the next city; feed them and find out _why_ they’ve come here (the JLA won’t use the Titans for this, _hell fucking no_ ).

Tim can’t just lay back and put the past away, he’s long past putting away childish things. He starts pulling back, soundless.

The hand grabs him from somewhere in the center of the burrito.

“Go back to sleep,” muffled and sleepy but most definitely an order.

“I need to make coffee,” Tim tries, talking softly even though the other bedmate is serious with the _super hearing_ and all.

“Dammit,” the burrito whines back at him. The hand lifts, shaking a forefinger close to his nose, “Coffee. No taking off, _dude_. I can run _faster_.”

His chest stutters, a half-laugh coming out while he’s staring at his best friend, _the burrito_.

“Mmm-hmm, go back to sleep,” he eases off the bed without a tremble, moving silently away from the crap bed, picking up his sweats off the floor, throwing them on over his boxers. Kon’s jeans are thrown over there, Bart’s made it to the top of the bureau.

Tim jolts, thrown with conflicting synapsis:

_Fold the jeans, put them in the right drawers or the hamper, Kon’s the top drawer with Bart’s under and his third._

Or

 _Keep walking, those aren’t things he_ does _anymore._

He keeps walking.

**

Coffee makes everything better. Really, it’s should be the new ad campaign. Not like _coffee_ really needed one, right?

Tim has the laptop out (probably breaking a few laws just with _this alone_ ), and checks three of his five remaining data hubs.

Of course things are moving in the usual pattern of _major incident on the horizon_ and _keep an eye on these ass hats_. He has a rating scale of 1-10 depending on assholery ( _no, Bart, still not a word_ ).

The buzz from the kitchen table has him standing, moving to look at the bright screen of Kon’s cell phone and just the summary:

_From: BadAssAmazon_

_What did he say?_

Tim blinks and jerks back. Last night, _last night_.

**

“Hope it’s cool if we crash with you, man. We need to have a little talk.”

He’d barely caught his breath seeing the two of them after all these months, after just kicking Dick the fuck out his window.

“Hey…I heard Titan’s Tower was abandoned.” And he’s got to be careful. So. _Fucking_. Careful. Be neutral, be _calm_.

Bart (because _Bart_ ) moves obviously, gets himself off that couch to get right up in Tim’s _up-close-and-personal_ bubble. “You see, _Tim_ ,” and he says it like, you know, synonymous with _asshole_ , “no one bothered to tell _us_ the JLA pretty much kicked your ass _off our team_ after Dick Grayson took your _cape_.”

And the soft noise is the tightening of Bart’s bare hands into fists, the creak of anger in his _bones_.

“And it’s pretty _fucked up_ you just _let it ride_ instead of telling us yourself. Like, what? You suddenly can’t _trust us_? Like we don’t get to _have your fucking back_ anymore? Just because you’re not Robin or some shit? _Like that even fucking **matters**_?”

Silence is sometimes the best weapon.

Unless your best friends are assholes.

Bart lashes out, punching him in the shoulder, slow enough that Tim can counter it if he really _wants to_.

“Ow,” instead he’s rubbing another bruise on top of bruise.

“Well?!”

“…I may have been slightly _compromised_ after Dick dumped me and made Dami his partner,” the taller man shrugs, “sorry.”

Now Kon is looking just as pissed off as Bart.

“He _what now?_ ”

_Oh shit._

“Don’t touch him. It’s almost been two years and that shit is over. I’m out of Gotham, have been, so no harm, no foul.”

“Please,” Kon sneers, “ _please_ tell me you are seriously fucking _joking_ , okay? Kryptonite glove be _damned_ , Grayson knew what was going to happen if he screwed you over, T. Like, I’m going to pummel his bones into _paste_ and shit.”

Bart is just glaring up at him and his outline is just slightly wavy, like he’s vibrating so fast his molecules are ready to pull a _later, man_.

“I’m out of the Bats,” he tries instead, “I’ve done as much as I can for them, and I’m moving the _fuck_ on, okay? I’m not dealing with them, and they aren’t dealing with me. It’s _done_ , so you two need to seriously _take a pill_.”

Bart abruptly turns his back, shoulders rising when he takes a _deep_ , **_deep_** breath since all he really wants to do is kick some sense into his best friend and just take a little _stroll_ into the Bat Cave and maybe set-up a few nice booby traps for Grayson, put up some “ _Get Wrecked Dick”_ banners, maybe just make some strategic _weaknesses_ in the new Robin’s suit (so he gets to fight crime bare _ass_ —that’ll teach you, you little _shit_ ), and just—just _so, so many things right now—!_

But Tim’s hands are broader now, stronger, cover more of Bart’s shoulders than they used to back when—

 _(grasping hands, the smooth glide of skin on skin, the worship of scars, writhing and gripping with all the strength he has_ )

“I’m sorry,” Tim’s hands slide around, he steps up to put his chest against Bart’s back, to let his arms wrap around, to have _something_ to hold on to and just _fuck_... this makes his chest _hurt_. First Dick and now _these two_.

“I—Bart, I’m _sorry_.”

The broken, the quiet. In all their time as protectors, as _heroes_ , Bart Allen and Conner Kent know when shock is about to give way. When something destructive is hovering. They _know_ how close Tim has come to the edge, how close to jumping off…

Bart just turns in Tim’s grip, wraps his own arms around ( _his bird, **their** bird_ ) (and _this is unexpected, who wants a dead fucking bird anyway?)_ and holds Tim _tight, tight_ to ground him, to bring him out of wherever his head might be (just like when they were _more_ ). Conner is up and moving, his steps jerky, but he doesn’t stop until he’s pressed right up against Tim’s back and holding on, too. Neither of the former Titans lets him hit the floor when his knees inevitably give out.

They ignoring the rolling, whispering nonsense just spewing from the dark depths, “I didn’t mean to—I _couldn’t_ drag you down with me. There was _no way_ to let you know—“

Rather, they cradle him between them and slowly sink to the floor, staying close while dawn is finally painting the sky with purples and pinks.

No one needs to move, not yet. The two younger heroes can sit curled around their third and let him shake apart between them.

How they made it to bed is still a blurry bullet point in the _Making an Ass of Yourself_ presentation. He vaguely remembers the uncomfortable clothes coming off, of Kon’s hands turning him, of being in the middle for a while, his knees drawn up against Kon’s thighs and Bart’s forehead at the nape of his neck. Of hands on his back, hands on the old scars on his calves and biceps, hands finding raw and aching points of pain, hands gripping, holding, tight and stable, breath against his cheek and forehead.

There was some talk maybe, Kon telling him how Gar got right up in Di’s grill and pretty much told her _suck it, I’m **out**_. Clark not fighting for _fuck_ because, really, how much of a shit does Superman _give_? Wally the only one that could have been a little crushed, but not enough to fight Dick over anything. Maybe something about the others, something about fighting the good fight regardless.

He knows the slight, subtle shift of ozone that’s Kon’s constant, the faint musk that’s Bart’s hair in his face. He knows warmth and comfort happened there when his brain was half-blown because alone had been just fine _when he was fucking alone_ , and the two of them in this end-of-the-world city, where he could escape the _past_ and start moving.

Sleep hadn’t come that fast or that easy in longer than his brain can calculate.

And this morning, he scrubs a hand down his face while the updates pour in from his hubs, let him know Mirror Master is still a dick bag, Luthor is starting to sell off some old tech since the _last_ round of terrible bad guy calisthenics cost him big time, N.O.W.H.E.R.E might try to rebuild something bigger than a toothpick if they can really recover after kidnapping Bart almost a year ago (and yes, he knows where they are and makes sure they’re _aware_ , hacking their systems occasionally and making them watch episodes of Japanese game shows. You know, just so they _get the point_ ).

Something sparks about the League of Assassins, but he only skims over it. Batman’s arch-nemesis needs to stop trying to find him, he’s had enough being thrown out of windows for the decade, thanks.

His second cup of coffee is more to keep his ass in the ratty tenement more than for the caffeine (since he honestly can’t remember the last time he’s slept that long—it’s weird not to be riding _some_ kind of sleep dep). They’re going to be up, and if he’s in the wind already, certain _protocols_ and _consequences_ will probably follow—ones that he has no intentions of dealing with.

Ever.

At all.

Cassie and Rave are _fucking scary_ when they collaborate on the “Where’s Tim?” game.  And, no, he’s trying to stay incognito (no new _name_ , remember?), under the radar; an all-out effort from the likes of Kon, Bart, Cassie, Rach, and Gar would spell impending _disaster_.

Apparently two of the five are surprised he’s _still here_.

“Not dreaming?” Only tufts of hair, half-mast eyes, and socked feet are showing around the burrito.

Tim waves a hand down himself with a flourish.

Kon is almost on Bart’s blanket, looking at him right over Bart’s head. “Nice. Contrary to popular belief, super hearing only works on people that make _noise_.” And he has a horrific moment in his sleepy state to remember that tiny, inconsequential metallic _click_ —the one moment that let him save Tim’s life.

Logging out of his separate sites and news sources, Tim turns the laptop off and tucks it away, taking his coffee in both hands to keep them busy.  He sips gingerly, waiting for the two of them to get Kon a cup and Bart a glass of juice (old habit and he didn’t even _realize_ ) since speedsters do _not_ need caffeine.

Instead of take up space on the couch with him or in one of the threadbare-bin chairs, the two former Titans fold themselves down to sit on the coffee table facing him, their legs blocking his in.

From the firmness of Kon’s jaw and the sudden serious look in Bart’s eye, he might regret not going out the window when he had the chance.

 

# No Home for Dead Birds IX

_Bad Guy Rule #64: When facing a team of superheroes, go for the one making the plans. The rest will go down like dominoes when you take out the brains._

The airport in Las Cruces should be full of the midnight mass of travelers— _should be_ , and it’s just his fucking  _luck_  it’s not. But, when on the run from super-powered assholes apparently with something to  _prove_ , things don’t normally go your way _._ Some kind of intelligent design probably.

The device in his pocket emits a low frequency sound attuned to his heartbeat because projecting a heart murmur is one of the plans to throw them off (since, well, kryptonite is in another safe place further east).  The pair of devices in his other pocket are the quintessential  _stop_ —ones that work exceedingly well against speedsters. Take the first two power houses out, and he has  _options_  for the others (Cassie always has a special soft spot for the innocent bystanders; Gar will stop at  _nothing_  if a threat is posed to Rach, like maybe residual Trigon energy in crazy small inanimate objects—just, you know,  _plans_ ).

And since he isn’t ( _supposedly_ ) carrying anything more than a messenger bag with his laptop, fake IDs, cash, and a half-bag of Skittles, no one really looks at the rough young man in an oversized hoodie twice.

Except for the random group of teenagers attempting to move through the airport looking mostly  _normal_  while doing things not really part of that considerable realm. Your normal, run-of-the-mill teenagers don’t look like they’re about to  _kill_  things with extreme prejudice and you’d better get the  _fuck_  out of the way or become part of the debris.

Bart, hidden under a stupid baseball cap, is on the cusp of  _Fuck.This. Noise_., cracking his neck with aggression in his usual way before time to start up with the  _fast, fast_.

Cassie just continues her stride over the excessively shiny floor, worn boots making the  _clip-clop_  sound at the heel—even absently looking around, she’s dangerous with that stride. Well, on a  _mission_ , is more apt. Kon and Bart are quick walking to keep up with her in  _find it_  mode. She scans over the sparse gathering of people waiting around for delayed or late flights as she moves with a sway in her long steps; each person is met with dismissal after a second or two, and she doesn’t even have to turn her head from the inspection to snag Bart’s bicep and put  _that_  process to a halt.

“No,” an under-the-breath order, “we’re keeping a low profile, remember?”

Bart, quick stepping since she’s playing into the image by holding his hand ( _dragging him along)_ while Kon keeps a finger in the belt loop by her right hip, glances up from under the cap, “I can find him in four seconds, tops, you know,” he deadpans.

“You did that last time, too,” she replies serenely, “how did that work out again?”

A sad smirk and Kon’s annoyed noise makes  _that_  point. Cassie’s eyes jerk to the—

 _No_.  _Right build, right clothes and hair, but not the right stance._

She keeps moving, waiting for the two with her to  _get the picture._  For best friends and ex-boyfriends, Kon and Bart are surprisingly oblivious when it comes to Tim Drakes unique little  _mannerisms_. The paranoia was always a  _Robin_  thing (which seems to be quickly falling to the wayside if the reports they’ve been reading about a traveling, somewhat  _reckless_ , lone vigilante are completely accurate), but the contingency planning? All the  _real_  Tim Drake (not to mention the shut-down of emotions for his  _pragmatism_ — that’s all Tim Drake  _now_  which is incredibly disturbing to her on multiple levels. Luckily, her little  _talk_  with Stephanie Brown concerning Dick Grayson  _after_  he left Tim’s apartment, provided some motivation behind everything, and, as she let him know, he’s  _very_  fortunate she decided against punching his balls into his throat since  _some_  of the superhero community believe in  _ethics_ ).

“Not…well,” Kon fills in, “it started out okay. We thought we had him for a while, but…it went downhill from there.”

She sighs a little as they come up on the next gate. “This is why I told you both to keep me in the loop. He  _knows_  he’s emotionally compromised with you two and will over- _compensate_ just on basic principle.”

Bart’s features twist into something utterly  _painful_  just long enough for her to catch it out of the corner of her eye, but well—she can understand. Tim  _running_  from them like this is very telling on how badly the last two years  _fucked him up_.

Clenching her jaw, struck again by the urge to just show up at Dick Grayson’s apartment with a fist full of  _hello you stupid asshole, hope you didn’t need those molars_ , Cassie is already trying to figure out how they’re going to talk Tim out of his own idea of exile.

She comes up with a little more than diddly squat, hoping her instincts will give her what she needs when the time comes.

“What do you see in the vents?” She asks under her breath, knowing Kon would hear (and even  _Kon-El_  might change soon; Conner Kent is a little more than paper now anyway, but she knows how painful it was for him to take all of his belongings out of the Kent’s farmhouse in Kansas).

“Dust,” he comes back, fingers tightening in the loop, “cobwebs, some cameras, standard Homeland, not specialty bird-tech.”

“We’re eventually going to run out of airport,” she huffs, annoyed.

“He may have already boarded a plane,” Bart comes back reasonably, “or he might have put clues here to throw us off.”

But something,  _something_  tells her they’re in the right place this time.

“He’s here somewhere,” her certainty makes both her comrades raise a brow.

But—

Kon’s finger tightens in her belt loop to stop her, eyes wide, “it’s so scary when you do that,” he mutters absently as all of them catch a glimpse of the hunched, hooded figure heading into the men’s room right off Gate 145, flight to Paris, France.

“Skill,” she replies absently, already changing directions, and—

**Not**

**Stopping**

“Whoa, whoa!” Bart hisses, trying to pull his hand back but, well,  _super strength_ , “Cassie you  _can’t go in there_ —“

“Watch me.” She’s already pushing open the door, dragging Bart and Kon along for the ride.

The two marvel that she is either scarily magical like Rave or has the luck of ever demigoddess  _ever_. The only one in the restroom is the guy in the oversized hoodie carrying a beat-up backpack and an equally beat-up skateboard; one with sharp blue eyes and a  _plan_  (since, you know, he already has the vent cover off and such). Even with blonde streaks and the fake goatee, the former Titans  _know_  their bird.

“Tim,” Cassie smiles gently, “long time, no see.”

Blinking at them, Tim Drake’s jaw drops, “ _Cassie_ , this is the  _men’s room_.”

“She’s got a lot of  _balls_ , Tim,” Kon snarks back, glaring because some  _loveable asshole_  really needs to chill out on the  _let’s avoid everything and be a fucking gypsy vigilante for a while_  thing.  

“Agreed,” a sleight of hand and whatever weapon Tim was going to use against them is put away in his back pocket. Well, totally looking for  _that shit_ , dude. “It’s nice to see you, Cassie.”

“Likewise,” she informs warmly, “I’d like to catch-up, but this isn’t a social call, Tim.”

And because Cassie Sandsmark is also a leader, she  _knows_  the strengths and weaknesses of her people; she knows their pet peeves as superheroes and their personal missions. She also knows how to gain their  _interest_. Keeping Tim Drake from vanishing regularly is going to take something huge, and she think she know exactly what that might be.

Tim’s blonde brow goes up as he slowly straightens from his crouch by the vent, “I’m not in—“

“We’re setting up a new home base. Somewhere we can start the new team, away from the JLA and the cities of their main members. It’s solo act time for us.” She lays it out, tilting her head quizzically at him. A slight squeeze to Bart’s hand and the speedster goes to guard the door. “We need someone for two weeks to help us get our systems and protocols off the ground. You were the main proponent in creating the systems and networks for Young Justice and the Titans. We need that skill now.”

Tim’s eyes narrow, most his face in shadow because of the hood, “who is ‘we’?”

Cassie just smiles. “Accept my offer, come to help us get started, and you’ll find out.”

And Tim, Tim Drake, blinks at her once, twice.

_Almost._

“Where?” It’s a hard tone, not Robin’s, something  _different_. Bart and Kon told her where they’d found him, what he’d been doing, how they came right in on the tail of Dick Grayson—all signs that pointed to the possibility of their former teammate deciding his life no longer worth the cost of living, perhaps without someone listening in to stop him the second time. Realistically, how long could he go on moving from city to city without a net before something  _happens_? (Before he just  _lets_  something happen?)

“Like I said,” she comes back, “away from our old mentors. You can either come with us or get on your plane and keep playing at doing something worthwhile.”

Tim’s eyes narrow, and now  _that look_  makes a shiver run up Bart’s spine and Kon lick his lips unconsciously; that? That is a look they definitely  _recognize_.

Cassie forces her feature to remain neutral even though  _Got You_.

“Forty-eight hours,” Tim finally comes out with it. “Forty-eight hours to see what you’ve got. Anywhere near the Bats or the JLA, and I’m going to start detonating things. Hidden things. No one wants that.”

Kon just throws up  _his fucking hands_ , “You and your  _goddamned_ contingencies!”

Bart rolls his eyes, “who cares? Like we haven’t  _blown shit up before_. So, can we  _please_  move this out of the men’s room before someone actually tries to come in here?”

All of them.  _All of them_ , give him  _the look_.

It’s totally great and lame at the same time. That’s what the shortest guy gets now that Tim is somehow  _taller_.

Seriously, fuck you tall people, okay?

He sighs and goes right back to guarding the door, throwing a double bird over both shoulders because  _really_.

“Seventy-two,” Cassie comes back, “the systems I need will take a majority of that. I have connections that will need to be integrated. That doesn’t even cover the wiring and tech we’ll need in the… _installation_.”

And just like he used to, she sees Tim read into her words, puzzle out the possibilities, make contingencies—and just,  _damn_  if it isn’t nice to watch the progression all over again. The last time in his old Perch in Gotham right after the first Batman was found—the fear for him was already creeping up her throat like bile. He was so off, so  _different_  and not in any positive way.

The grainy camera footage of him a few weeks ago in Birmingham, Alabama had been enough to get them moving in on his location—whether or not he wanted to be found. The startling lack of heavy armor, of color, of a utility belt, all points of  _what the **hell**  is this supposed to be?_ Watching him fight with the bo only sparingly but stick with street boxing and few of his old martial arts moves; watching him jump with more grace than he used to, only a line, no grapple guns, no back-up should the rope snap…

The video was of some vigilante they’d never really met; one that was stealthier than Robin, more reckless, less careful to plan his moves before diving into the fight.

One that didn’t give a damn if he died in a gutter fighting thieves and rapists. One that would lay down if the blood loss was too much of a bother.

 _“I fear for him,”_ and this from Raven _, “he is in a cage with no bars_.  _I **fear**  for him._”

Cassie, with steely determination, had sent the five (Miguel with Gar since he hadn’t met Tim) out, scattering to look for the next possible sighting.

Imagine her level of  _pissed the hell off_  when Dick Grayson beat them to him.

Tim has had a full sixty seconds to process, and Cassie holds out a hand (since sending Kon and Bart hadn’t really had the  _effect_  she was hoping for), “well?”

**

“Explain to me,” and the rolling, deep, darkness of the tone, the  _richness_  of speech, echoes throughout the caves, reverberating through the assembled mass, “how it is that you have  _lost_  him?”

Below the daises, the three followers bow with foreheads on the ground, prostrating themselves before their  _God_. In the way of true fanatics, the only reason they  _live_  is because of his  _grace_.

“He has left no trail, my lord.  _Nothing_. He does not intend to be found.”

And with the grace of a predator, he stands from his throne, moving with purposeful steps to put himself on their level.

“ ‘He does not intend to be found’?” And the slight tilt makes the air tense, “I employ the best thieves in the world, the most skilled marksmen, the most sucessful huntsmen, and yet, we cannot find  _one_  teenage  _boy_?”

His men rise up and bow once again.

Failure.

Most _…disappointing_.

Displeased with this turn of events, he turns to the others in the room shrouded in shadows, walking slowly while he thinks and regards them.

“It seems I have erroneously placed faith in these three,” and at his throne, he pulls his trusted blade from the sheath at the right hand, the glimmer of steel in candlelight. “All of you are aware I do not tolerate  _incompetence_.”

The play of movement along the wall is precise motion; he is so fast the next two are dead before the third can even begin to beg for his  _life_.

As a testament to his chosen  _profession_ , his clothing remains  _pristine_.

Straightening from his impressive crouch, he accepts a cloth from a bowing servant, and moves around in the circle of light, allowing all of the shadowed figures to watch him clean his blade.

“No one else will fail me,” he keeps his tone light, a statement of fact. “You will find him, and you will find him  _now_.”

Only a whisper is the shadows becoming empty once more, and Ra’s al Ghul holds his sword up to the candlelight, making sure the blood of the unclean is gone.

“And you, Detective, shall run no longer. It is  _time_  for you to accept my offer.”

**

New Orleans, Louisiana 72:00:00

“This is  _insane_. What the  _hell_  are you thinking?”

Since Kon and Bart lost him  _the first time_ , Cassie is the one carrying Tim Drake through the air, one arm around his waist and the other to keep her balance. She laugh a little as his disbelieving tone comes and goes with the wind.

“You think so?” She returns, looking down over the bustling city. “I think it’s really quite brilliant.”

“It’s a  _major_  city with a dense population and  ** _flooding_** problems, Cassie,” he grits out.

She manages to shrug using the arm holding him, “hm. Maybe you should have been on the ‘let’s establish a new place to hang-out’ survey team, Tim, but since you missed out on that, here we are.” Her eyes slide over where his expression is pinched, and  _yes_ , yes that’s why she’s smiling.

However, she gives him the answer, the acceptable one he’ll actually  _consider_. “Besides, no hero  _ever_  has been able to help this place. Many have tried to say here, and they’ve all failed. We thought it might be time for a  _real_  challenge.”

And, hm.

His bare face (so used to seeing a domino and whiteouts,  _this_  is really strange) turns to her, eyes narrow in  _something_  like contemplation…and  _interest_. She knows all the right buttons to push. Take into account the former Titans have been tracking his movements for the last few months, tracing cities and hideouts, trying to find any footage of him in action, making correlations to where he stops and stays for a few weeks before moving on.

As Gar pointed out, all of the cities are like Gotham lite—dangerous and riddled with crime, just without all the  _crazy_  to go with it.

Bart jumped on that way of thinking, pointing out the architectural differences between Gotham’s Gothic darkness to the Tim’s  _new_  regular—slums overrunning the landscape, smaller buildings without the need to swing high, major crime syndicates brought down by evidence played blatantly on every major internet site rather than by vigilante intervention.

Tim saved real patrolling for the down and dirty criminals; the political maneuverings, he used strictly anonymous screen name and data.

Very different, and very telling.

Also, it gave Cassie a stroke of  _genius_  that might just be the way to bring him back to stay.

With Tim looking at her now, eyes narrowed with wariness, body much lighter than the last time she gave him a lift (including backpack and skateboard)—everything she can see, everything they’ve learned all point to the fact that he  _needs_  them as much as they need him.

Well, here’s hoping her brilliant move might do the trick.

Deflecting that scrutiny or the moment, she tilts her head closer to be heard over the wind, “they missed you, you know. Moaned and complained about how worried they were. I think Kon stared at his phone for an hour after we left your Perch in Gotham... well, and after you vanished when we went for Bart. The explosion was a nice touch.”

“Sometimes you have to go out with a bang,” he deadpans.

“You? Are  _such_  a dork.”

“So you’ve told me.”

She sighs, rolls her eyes, “the  _point_  is: they’re happy to see you. They…there is apparently  _a lot_  we didn’t know. A  _lot_ , Tim.” She tries again, and—

 _Blink_.

“I—“ he stutters an important second, closing down immediately before he turns his gaze back to the city below them.

Her thoughts turn pleasant with the image of Dick Grayson suffering again. Maybe out in space somewhere, far, far out. She’d have to talk to Kory someday.

“People never look up,” he interjects awkward, deflecting as hard as he can. “Never understood that. Even in Gotham, Metropolis, where people  _know_ , they still…don’t look  _up_.”

Cassie hums a little even though he can’t hear it, “of course not, Tim. Why would regular people want to acknowledge the  _need_ for metas and vigilantes like us in the world? Looking for us, looking up expecting us, that just makes the possibilities more  _real_. It shakes up their reality.”

Tim considers this as the descent is  _likewise_  not noted by the busy street, further making his skin crawl  _just slightly_. It’s broad day light, and he’s accustomed to a whole different kind of mask.

Luckily, another point Cassie was apparently trying to make,  _this_  is  _New Orleans_. A majority of things happening down on the street would be more interesting than a couple flying kids lighting down on the street’s tallest roof, seven stories, child’s play.

The hand around his wrist doesn’t let go for a second, and she taps her code into the deceptively crappy access door. On auto-pilot, he picks out the flaws (vents need pressure traps, key pad could be hidden better, the blind spot is on the wrong side), and what would need to be added for more security.

From the side view, Cassie is grinning already. The door gives way to a small elevator with tech that hits the  _better but not up to standard_  file in his mental rolodex.

Oh yeah, that’s the smug face.

“This is really a terrible set-up,” but Tim doesn’t fight her tug to step inside and let the door slide closed again. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Movement as they descend, and he’s calculating contingencies on getting  _out_  if something or someone were to try and get access—

Still  _smug_ , “we’ve been together long enough that I’m pretty sure I have an idea on the inner working of Tim Drake.”

“This is entrapment, you know.” Terrible security failures and systems engineering always  _are_. Damn.

“Well, not necessarily. I didn’t ask you for a  _thing_ ,” Cassie takes the necklace she’s wearing under her shirt off and plugs a key into the elevator panel, “except to come and help get our systems up and running.” She presses a button and the smooth glide makes everything a little better.

“How many underground floors are there?”

“Seven.”

“ _Seven?_ ” As in  _only?_

“Seven.  _And_ , you notice I didn’t ask you to come back for good. I wouldn’t pressure you like that. If you want to come with us, your spot is always open.” Her eyes are darker blue than usual, arms crossed over her chest and the utter  _calm_ , cool, and collected that is very much who Cassie has grown to be in the last few years. Breaking away from Diana may have done her more good than he originally thought.

“Well, leaving the Titans was a nice gesture,” and he can grin over at her, feeling some of the tension, some of the effects of isolation ease. “Really. I heard you told Diana to kiss your ass.”

She laughs because  _Tim_. “Not necessary. We are simply no longer on the same road for the same journey. It was time to move in a different direction. I think everyone…well, saw the writing on the wall before we came to Gotham to help you get your Batman back.” She shrugs a little carelessly, but her expression is solemn, and Tim realizes this move, maybe needed, still took its toll.

_Dammit, now I want to—_

“It’s better this way. Even Rach and Gar came with us, we recruited Miguel—you’ll probably like him, he’s… _very_  excited to meet the former Red Robin. Gauging his power and how to interact with the rest of the team in a fight has been challenging, but he’s really a fantastic guy.”

And her off-handed comments just keep  _working_  to peak his interest, to switch gears to programming training sims, to run diagnostics on the new member’s capabilities and—

“Kon’s TTK is also getting better. He has more capabilities now. Rach…well, we had some Trigon issues—“

“She was able to channel her half-human self when he had taken her over,” Tim interject quietly, leaning back against the wall.

“Mmhm, still accessed our systems, didn’t you?”

A shrug that could mean everything and nothing.

The elevator finally glides to a stop, “Ah. Here we go. You can use this section of rooms while you’re here getting everything together.”

And the door slides open seamlessly—into his  _world_.

The set-up is meticulous  _Tim Drake_ , monitors, powerful CPUs, and—

A logo floating across the broad screens.

He hasn’t realized he’s moved until Tim’s across the room, past the desk and wall of holographic screens depicting maps, littered with different colored dots, analysis working on overseas terrorists. The sleek design and meticulous tech make a shudder roll down his spine as he looks up at the logo and—

“It’s for the one that steps into that role,” Cassie answers easily, “it’s a work in progress, but we’re going to need an intel guy.”

Tim stares a few more seconds before he calmly turns his gaze to her slightly smiling face.

“We’re going to need an oracle of our own to stay in the game.”

And she holds back when his eyes take on  _that look_ , when Tim Drake visibly straightens, and his old self is right there in his stance, in his expression.

Kon and Bart are going to owe her fifty dollars each. She just won the bet.

_Got you_

 

#  No Home for Dead Birds Drabble: Dick Grayson

_As requested by @impossiblephantomwhispers. I hope you wanted some pain with your story._

**

Being an acrobat means rarely having your feet _on the ground_. It’s the rush of flying, the adrenaline, the _freedom_. He’s never been able to carve the circus boy out of his being, it’s planted to the _root_.

Moving from Robin to Nightwing, to _move_ , to be _free_ from Gotham City was more of a gift than a punishment, or so he’d come to realize after a few months of being his own man, making his choices without factoring in Bruce’s reactions or Bruce’s way of thinking about a situation. So many of his choices always had a shadow of the man who raised him, the man who influenced him to take this life and use it for the good of everyone. If not for Bruce, who knows what would have happened to him after his mom and dad died? If not for Bruce, he’d been some drifter moving from town to town or…dead.

Robin gave him purpose, gave him family, gave him connections to people he desperately needed. Nightwing let him keep it.

And he’s back in it, the black and blue bodysuit, _his_ suit, _his_ insignia, and it’s so _light_ comparatively, not nearly as heavy as the Bat in the center of his chest. He’s been back in it for a few months, readjusting to his life when he thought he’d never wear Nightwing again. That he would die with a false pseud instead of as himself (no one can _really_ be the Bat but Bruce, not even his first partner).

And it’s like he’s that circus kid again, the rush of flying, the adrenaline when he leaps to take on criminals, the freedom to do what he feels he needs to do. It sucks to lose Dami ( ** _his_** _Robin in a way Tim could never be_ ) now that B is back because they’ve come _so far_ in the last year, they’ve come to an understanding on what it mean to wear the cape, to take the lives of the people around them seriously, to stop underestimating the criminals they face and their capabilities, to _try_ being a family that talks things out and—

The same things he failed to teach Jason, that he tried to teach Tim…

 _Tim_.

( _Those hands have gotten bigger than last year, now he palms the side of Dick’s neck and pull him down for a kiss…_ )

(“ _You wanted to JLA to shut me out of the Titans, done. You let Damian push me out of the Manor and the Cave, done.  You wanted the **right**  Robin, the blooded one? **Done**.”_ No, Timmy, no…  All I ever wanted was you—you just _weren’t_ the most pressing need—)

Tonight, in an unfamiliar city, in an unfamiliar room, with a _very_ familiar tumbler of whiskey, Dick Grayson has an uncharacteristic span of utter self-loathing. For the first time in years, he’s drinking like he needs to forget.  Well, he knows the irony in that because Bats don’t forget—not even when they’re _dead_.

The darkness is soothing, only moonlight yellow and dirty through the cheap hotel windows, lighting up his bare feet on the bed, still a foot too far away to light up the ratty t-shirt he’s clutching to his chest in one fist while the other throws the whiskey back whenever the pain and old regrets starts to get heavy enough to pull him _under_.

The t-shirt is worn, washed over and over again, the logo on the front of a double string helix with the words “ _Checks itself before it wrecks itself_ ” below. The shirt is much too small to fit his shoulders or torso and still smells like the musk of skin. Alfred had picked it up from somewhere, buried in some niche in the Manor (not his old room—every last scrap of identifiable anything is long gone, just another indication he _isn’t coming back_ ; a sign ignored until recently after that little talk with Jason Todd…and _now_ , it could be _real_ ). He managed to get his hands on it before Alfred threw it in the wash, taking the shirt back up to hang in his own closet—just…just in _case_.

He wasn’t even thinking when he brought it, some unconscious auto-pilot packing it up in his travel duffle even though he never had any intention of giving it back ( _it might be all I have left_ ).

Black and blue is still folded in the duffle, deflated because the hope of trying to start back on the road to fixing things, to nudging himself back in Tim’s _life_ has been equivocally slaughtered ( _for the moment_ ); all the good intentions, the weeks of searching, the _months_ of worrying, the year of blissful _denial_ are pathetically, woefully deficient in the face of a long-coming _epiphany_.

In the years he’s been living the life of a vigilante, Dick prides himself on very seldom making the sacrifice play with anyone other than himself. For Batman, more often than not, for hostages or for other heroes in trouble—count on Dick to throw himself on his proverbial sword and agree to take the brunt of whatever reaction is coming. The whole _save the innocent people_ mentality. It’s really the Bat way.

But now that he has hindsight on his side, he can see he’s done exactly that: sacrificed Tim’s safety and sanity in exchange for Damian’s; he’d sacrificed Tim when Bruce would have found a better way—would have done what was best for _both_ of them.

He’s spent the last year justifying _needs_ over _wants_ , safe in the knowledge that hard times call for hard choices, and regardless of what he did, someone was bound to get _hurt_. In that perspective, the choice was obvious on what he had to do, on _who_ had to take precedent. Back then, he’d only allowed himself to see the sacrifices _he_ was making for the best end result, trusting everyone else around him would get the picture.

The assumption was really his own diversion from _talking_ about things close to his heart, that he wouldn’t have to _tell_ Tim they were temporarily breaking up so he could try to earn Damian’s trust, that he still _wanted_ Timmy with everything, but he had to be something different. Not forever, just let Dami get to trust him, to trust _them_ , to be part of the family and _accept_ —

He expected Tim to get _the plan_. He **expected** Tim to be upset over Robin and to go out in the world to get his own name, to come back a different man, not a Robin.

He expected Tim to see how he was just trying to make the right choices for everyone; for Tim to let him just _hug_ and be grateful, and maybe be able to be close again once Dick spent time trying to soothe the hurt feelings. By then, Damian would be more stable, and Dick could dedicate the time to Tim.

He expected them to be partners again someday, for the trust to still _be there_ or able to be _won back_.

In his way of jumping head-first once he’s got a plan set in motion, he showed up at the tenement building where he’d tracked the illusive Tim Drake. The Tim Drake that would turn nineteen in a few short weeks; the Tim Drake that hadn’t returned his phone calls or answered text messages. The Tim Drake that told Bruce there was no home for dead birds.

In retrospect, also the Tim Drake he’d fallen so _hard_ for, the one that made his heart feel almost _healed_ like back when he was a stupid kid in love with Barbara Gordon. The one that held him after the Battle for the Cowl when the weight of what he’d taken on had almost crushed his lungs, the one that laughed at his stupid jokes and returned the slew of witty banter, the one that _believed_ in him, in his goodness and capabilities, no matter what else may have hit. The one that, once upon a time, set his weaknesses and vulnerabilities right in Dick’s _safekeeping_. Those same weaknesses and vulnerabilities he’d used against the other former Robin— _and he hadn’t even realized it at the time._ How far he’d played right into Tim’s deepest secret fear, that he’d _abandoned_ the young man just like everyone else.

( _“You’re my equal, Tim. You can’t be my Robin, I have nothing to **teach** you.”_

 _“How could you do this without even **talking** to me, Dick,” and all the pain, all the betrayal in the stiff spine, the wide, hurt eyes. “How could you **do** this?” _ To me _remains unsaid because to get through to Damian, he had to, temporarily, end his relationship with Tim. If they stayed together, Damian would never stop challenging, never let himself get close._

_“Tim, you’re seventeen, and it’s time for you to move on, to think about creating your own name.”_

_“Robin is all I have left,” is a choked admission, something bitter enough for Tim’s eyes to sheen over, for him to blink rapidly against it. “I don’t have anything **else** , Dick.”_

_“Neither does Dami, Tim. He has even **less** because he doesn’t have the kind of resources and experiences you do.” And the logic of it should have appealed to Tim, should have made him _ see _the reasons behind it._

_Well, he was wrong._

_“I never would have thought you could be this heartless,” and Tim turns away, fists clenched hard enough to make his forearms strain._

_“You’re acting like a child!”_

_“Oh? Are you sure I’m not acting like I just got **dumped** on top of everything **else**?” As soon as the words came out of his mouth, a strange something in Tim’s eyes. A realization, a calculation come to fruition; something that made him crumple slightly in on himself enough to make Dick pause and something _ very real _broke between them. Dick could feel it, but had to push it away because other things_ were more important. _And Tim was ducking out of the kitchen of the Manor, throwing open the door to_ run _before Dick could call out to him. It’s fine, Timmy just needed time to get accustomed to everything—_ how arrogant for him to assume that? For him not to _realize_ how easily he was taking Tim apart piece-by-piece? For him to make Tim believe he was just a placeholder for some idealized Robin that didn’t even _exist_ : _“You didn’t have to lower yourself to **fucking** me—“)_

Also the Tim Drake that came a hairsbreadth from ending his own life.  And the _horror_ , the sick copper and bile that rose up in his throat when he and O listened to the Titan’s comm they’d _finally_ managed to hack on the road to finding out where Tim might be holding up, waiting with his chest _burning_ for air, but he _can’t breathe_ , hoping, praying, knees giving way while they both prayed ( _Please, **please**_ , _don’t let him **do** this, please give me the chance to make it right_ ) Superboy would be able to stop him, to save him from himself.

( _“All you need to do is turn around, and pretend you were never here.”)_

But…even though he _knew_ how close to the line Tim was walking—

How. Fucking. _Close_ they came to losing a Robin—

He didn’t go out and hunt Tim Drake to the ends of the Earth and drag him back.

No, Dick Grayson pulled the net away, and let him keep _falling_.

And the man he is in the here and now, in this dust ball of a city, the man that’s already had more to drink in this one sitting than he’s had in the last few _years_ , is a man that’s had plenty of _time_ to realize the backlash of decisions he made with the best of intentions.

His eyes, face, wet with pointless grief and mourning—pointless because he’d thrown away the best thing in his life in so many years, treated it like _garbage_ , bitten it until it _bled_.

Tim’s expressions, the hurt, the pain, the realization, the discomfort being in the Manor, in the Cave, anywhere _near_ him—and Dami’s constant stream of shit-spewing in those days, the “new” Robin with a sharp tongue and tendency to make you bleed with more than just steel.

( _And fucking **Jason** again: “_ _I bet he helped you do it, yeah? Bet he was riiiight there with you saying it, too. Out with the old, in with the new. Since you ain’t got the cape, maybe you’s should just hit the fucking road. Make some **room** for the next in line.”)_

He’d been so busy setting up his network to be the new Batman, Dami’s cuts had gone right over his head, he’d figured Tim would never take the kid _seriously_ , would never let Dami _shake_ _him_ like that, but… the new Robin, the blooded son, was given everything taken away from Tim, so why not _believe_ he didn’t have a _place_ in their _home_ anymore?

Hours and hours on his laptop, watching old footage, listening to the taunts and torments—watching Tim’s face on the black and white camera when Dami walked out in Robin’s tunic, and the stark, painful _realization_ right there while Dick’s back was turned, while Dick wouldn’t even _look_ him in the _eye_.

( _“You think he needed a written **invitation** to get the fuck out?”)_

Almost two years.

It had taken Dick Grayson almost two _years_ to finally _see_ what really happened—what he _let_ happen to a seventeen-year old boy that sacrificed for their Mission, the boy that lost everyone, and Dick didn’t even give him time to mourn before he took the last of it away.

His fist is clenched so tight around the t-shirt it aches.

All things _should have_ hover in the dark corners of the room.

 _“I can’t be Nightwing, but you can still be Flamebird. Timmy, Dami needs something to keep him on our side. If we don’t give him an anchor, he’s going to run back to Ra’s and be the next Demon’s Head. Bruce’s son is going to be a supervillain. If we can give him Robin, if **we** can make him part of the family whether Bruce is here or not, we can save him. I know we can. Be my partner, be my Flamebird. Help me, Tim. Please, help me._ ”

So

Easy.

It would have been _so easy_ to save them both; if he’d taken enough time to _think_ it through, to realize _both_ of them were dangerously close to the edge, to see how _both_ of them needed _saving_. At the time, Dick had every tool needed in his bag of tricks to save them _both_ ; he hadn’t. He made a _choice_ and hadn’t even _seen_.

If he would have thought of it as Bruce’s _two sons_ needed saving.

He had every capability, every _reason_ to save them _both_. But at the time, his vision had narrowed on Damian Wayne, Bruce’s legacy, to make sure that kid wouldn’t fall by the wayside, and in the worst span of decision-making _in his life_ , he made the sacrifice play, choosing Damian over Tim rather than choosing them _both_.

The tumbler in his hand groans in protest because his fist is so very _tight_ , and the brief moments in the Cave when Dick saw Tim without the mask, after a year of radio silence while the fear and worry rode him for the third Robin that _sacrificed_ selflessly, that knew no bounds, the culmination of his narrow view came to a sick, sad fruition.

From the second he swooped out of the night to save Tim from death by window to the finality of another window in that dirty tenement building closing in his face, Dick Grayson can _see_ the epiphany Tim came to in the Manor’s kitchen almost two years ago.

_How could he have fooled me this long in believing I was really part of everything? How could I have been so stupid? How could I not **see** it before—Replacement, stand-in, placeholder…_

And the agony in Dick’s chest expands into a cold fist dead center, weighing him down with failure upon failure since he drove the man he loved to the brink of suicide.

_He gave himself to me and this is what I gave him in return._

He’s so deep in recriminations, aching for all the stupid choices, reliving his _sins_ , that he doesn’t hear the knock on the window. When it slides up, when Clark as Superman flows in with cape fluttering behind him, Dick hides his face in the t-shirt, gets the hint of Tim’s scent like he used to when he’d bury his face in the juncture between the neck and shoulder or right in the niche of his hip, and _he’ll never have that again—he threw all of it **away**_ …

Clark just sits beside him on the terrible hotel bed, wraps Dick up in both arms like when he was a ten-year old scrapper of a kid, and lifts the grown man into his lap, rocking him gently.

And Clark holds _tight_ because he _knows_ how the road to hell is paved with the best of intentions ( _should have made him feel like family, shouldn’t have just let him **go** , he **is** of the House of El)_ , and he _knows_ making bad choices for what seem to be the right reasons at the time. He _knows_ how to cause irreparable damage to someone that didn’t deserve it, someone that would bleed for their cause. He know the pain when you lose something so precious, and you don’t even _realize_ until it’s…gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few things:  
> 1\. The JLA is just like anyone else. They make choices, right? Keep that in mind.  
> 2\. This is my first attempt at Tim/Kon/Bart, ah... Yeah?  
> 3\. Cassie is going to be a BAD ASS, just saying  
> 4\. I totally know I'm being so hard on Dick. Oh, I know. This might just be a thing for me, I dunno. Sorry about it, BUT! He had valid reasons for making his decisions at the time, sure. The point is, he should have done it differently.
> 
> Thanks for reading ;)


	23. Night Sky IV: The finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> N has agreed with Hood and Red with Robin, and there's only one way to see if they can possibly have it all.   
> NSFW Robinpile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Titans_R_Us and Azazels were crucial to finishing this side off ;) Just, so much feels with your porn. I ran of out of characters in the initial description part to enter this last chapter (so, so sad)

In any other circumstances, he’d be cleaning _up_ right now. Little dust off the hands, call in the GCPD, and hang up some bad guys from a few lamp posts. Have a good night, I’m out. Drop the mike.

As it is, Red is letting gloved hands and restraints keep him nice and _immobile_ instead.

His “ _holy **fuck**_ , _Batman_ ” is muffled by a big hand tight against his mouth, Kevlar and musk in his nose. They’d already gotten the _special_ restraints on him, fighting pretty damn _dirty_ after bringing food to his stake-out, an obvious distraction for their devious plan.

Dammit, the assholes have _no shame_. Roof tacos are _sacred_.

But the Killer Croc tested, Bat approved restraint bands are _good_ _tech_ , even used on the occasional Scarecrow/Joker-toxined vigilante. He should know. He helped B make them for worst-case scenario.

Now, it’s the best/worst thing he could have ever made.

Red’s hips jerk, hard and abrupt, noises _obscene_ behind Nightwing’s gloved hand. It does nothing to dislodge the Red Hood from holding his thighs just _that much_ higher to go back for _more_. And God, _God,_ Jason’s _mouth_ there, getting him _wet_ and ready.

It’s been almost a year since he’s had this, _them_ , and the hidden depths of his heart, the fractured pieces are coming back together again whether he wants it to or not. At the time, he’d ended the thing between the three of them to give Dick and Jason the chance to be _happy_ together without complications. He thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he was making good choices.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , it’s a plan he needs to revisit.

He tenses a second before Robin steps out of the shadows, smirking. _Knowing_. At almost nineteen, Robin hits the whiteouts so those eyes can glitter in the night.

“You started early,” pushing the hood of his cape back, Robin is already removing his gauntlets by the time he kneels. And there’s a vigilante holding him all over, Robin’s bare hand at his back while the other presses the right spot in the harness to deactivate the traps and let it fall harmlessly away. Utility belt is next.

These three have gotten to know him just a little too well—taking away his contingencies.

Nightwing winks at Robin and slides the fingers of his free hand over the hidden catches of Red’s armor, talking against Red’s ear while Robin helps, unzipping the body suit to bare skin:

“I think, Baby Bird,” deep and dark, calmly against the side of his neck, the tone that makes him get _tight_ all over, “you’re going to be busy for the night. So, Batgirl is down a block on your bad guys, and you? You are going to be very, _very_ good for us. Aren’t you?”

Skin is hitting the cool air—summer into fall—and he shivers into the hands holding him, breathing hard through his nose while his body heats, _throbs_ with hands and mouths and bare skin in the night.

Hood’s tongue stabs inside him, and without conscious thought, his thighs tighten, caught in the grip of the dangerous vigilante. With his tights caught around his booted ankles, all he can do is make noises into N’s glove while his lower body is held hoisted higher, the mouth going _further_.

When he and Robin ( _who is going to get the ass-chewing **of the year** for plotting this_ ) talked about the possibility of…well, of the fact N and Hood still _wanted_ him, didn’t chose to let him go (and had regrets about letting him out, not to mention how _pissed_ they apparently are since Robin spilled the truth behind his decision— _dammit_ ), and maybe try to let them in—Red had certain _expectations_. Maybe all of them actually _talking_ about it outside the capes, or maybe pizza and a movie night with just the four of them, being comfortable and slowly starting to make-out or something? Maybe setting up ground rules about how this whatever might work. He didn’t expect to be plotted _against_ (because, well, let’s face it: of the four of them, _he’s_ usually the man with the nefarious plans) by the three of them right when _he’s in the middle of a case_.

Robin’s mouth on his chest drives his thoughts back down under the haze of arousal, wet and warm, sucking him, marking him, making a claim on him. Just like Hood eating him, opening him wide to make his own claim of ownership. With his armor gone, N is at the base of his throat to make his marks as well; the kiss of teeth on _that spot_ makes Red even harder, _ready_ for _something_ to happen before he goes _insane_.

His hands twist uselessly against the restraints, wrists trying to pull apart so he can get one of them, _all of them_ under his hands, so he can take control—

His gauntlets have been deactivated no matter how much he twists.

One of the hands holding his thighs off the ground leaves, moves under him to grip his bound wrists and _pull_.

Hood leans back from sucking at his rim, eyes deep, dark blue as he raises his head, licking a trail up and over his balls, right to the base of his hard cock before he pulls back.

“Nuh-uh Baby Bird,” another tug on his wrists in Hood’s grip, pulling his arms, shoving his shoulders harder against the hard front of N’s chest, “that’s a _bad_ Robin.” 

His chest stutters, the noise muffled against N’s palm part groan, part whine, but his wrists and hands stop twisting, his body growing lax in their hold. In this position, his advantage is to give in (and _yes,_ God _yes_ , he wants to, wants to more than he can ever _remember_ wanting to in the past). Hood dives back down and shoves his tongue inside as far as can; Robin licks over his exposed nipple, humming before he latches on and _sucks_.

N raises his head enough to bite into the finger of his glove and pull it off. He uses his hold on Red’s mouth to tilt the younger Bat’s gaze back, to meeting the heat in his eyes.

“Don’t make us get _rough_ with you, Red.” And the edge to his voice, the strength in his hold is all _please, make us get **rough**_. _Make us take you over and over until you can’t move, until you can’t think, until you belong to all of us_ …

“He will be _compliant_ , won’t you, _habibi_?” Robin pulls off, eyes rolling up his panting chest, bare hand skimming down his body, over his scars, to cup his hard cock lightly in a warm palm, circling the base. “You will allow us to take _care_ of things for once, yes?”

He looks down slightly, trying to get a full breath, trying to make sure he burns every moment in his _memory_. The noise of agreement vibrates through his body, makes the slow, dirty smirk take over Robin’s face while his eyes glitter, outlined by the domino.

“ _Fuck,_ ‘Wing,” Hood comes up for air, sucks and laps at his balls, hands grip into the meat of his thighs _tighter_ , and the bruises are going to be such a good reminder. “Missed the _shit_ outta this.  _Fuck_ he’s so good on my tongue. Always good, Timmy. Just how I _like_ it.”

Mouth against his ear, N’s breath heats, “see how much he _missed_ you? Missed _this_?”

“And those _noises_ ,” Hood’s eyes get _darker,_ “when y’ can’t hold back no more. Aw, _fuck_.”

“The way you tighten when you’re so _close_ to coming,” N fills in, follows with a _bite_.

“The way y’ _move_ on my cock, Baby Bird,” Hood grins and leans down, tonguing his balls and moving back up. “Like it’s the best ride y’ ever _had_ , yeah?”

“The way you fill me up when it’s your turn, take me nice and deep,” and N is sucking him, all their mouths moving wet and _oh…oh God, he’s going to **die**_.

“Always gotta have a plan, Baby Bird,” Hood bites into the meat of his inner thigh, right on that sensitive _spot_. “Now we gotta plan just for _you_ , don’t we Rob?”

And Robin sinks his teeth into the scar along the last rib, causing the writhing body to jerk, _tighten_. N’s glove barely muffles the cry, drawing Hood and N to _take note_. Those eyes are half-lidded, panting breath through his nose.

“I believe we have multiple _contingencies_ , Hood,” and Robin’s tongue laves the spot again. “Ones that will be…mutually satisfying.” Those eyes roll up to meet Hood’s over the span of muscle and skin, his smirk just the right side of _dirty_ for the Red Hood. As it is, he’s the one that enjoys the _tease_ , drawing it _out_ as far as he can, so it’s just a _taste_ he offers the youngest when he lowers his head and runs his tongue between Robin’s fingers on Red’s cock, gets close enough to _suck_.

Robin and the Red Hood hold one another’s gazes while Robin grazes the jut of hip with his teeth, and Hood mouths the soft curve of the head to the shaft.

Red groans against N’s hand, eyes all for the show while their hands continue to move over him, Kevlar and leather over skin from the parts that haven’t yet made it out of the nighttime wear.

N tilts him slightly higher so he can see Robin gripping him, Hood tonguing him, finally takes him _in_.

He keens, drawing their gazes to his bare, flushed face, pupils blown wide, he strains forward against N’s hold for approximately five seconds before he’s drawn back, the grip bruising, encompassing.

“You get to _watch_ while we _fuck_ you, Tim,” and it’s the deep darkness, an edge of feral to N’s nature, the words growled against his throat. “You’re going to let us take you until you can’t _move_ , until we’ve marked every inch of you.”

Robin leans up, tightens at the base of his cock, and  joins Hood, both of them mouth at him at the same time, licking him, _sucking_ at him, making him jerk and writhe caught up in their hands.

And _oh God_ , it’s so good. _Too much_ , too much to make his brain overload, to make his body wind so _tight_ ; all he can do is let his eyes roll in the back of his head when Robin’s hand slides from the base of his cock and behind his balls, start fingering him open with slick he probably kept in his utility belt and saliva from Hood’s obsession to _eat ass_ , get him ready to be _taken_ just like N promised.

And, yes, God, _please_. _Please_. As long as Robin is on board, as long N and Hood are good with this, as long as there is _no pain_ , he’ll take them, _all of them_ , as his. He’ll let himself be owned and own in return (because _this_ , this is more than he could have imagined, for all of them to want to _keep_ him).

If they would let him out of the damn restraints—!

One becomes two, opening him up (and he’s so _wet_ from Hood’s mouth and enthusiastic tongue, shaking when he felt the older man moan against him, moan _inside_ him).

He’s lost in the motions, of Hood’s mouth mapping out his cock with hands holding him closer for _more._ Robin traces the sensitive spot on his hip and the top of his thigh with his lips and teeth while he preps. N panting against his shoulders, sucking and biting marks into his throat and collar bone so he’ll feel it, _see it_ for days and _know_ this really happened. He has enough brain power to turn slightly, press his forehead and nose into N’s neck and make more noises against his hand. His hips work against Hood and Robin’s hands, rhythmic movement he can manage, telling them with his body what he can’t with his mouth:

_Yes._

_Please God. I **need**_ —

And he does, needs them with such force, such _pain_ , it’s frightening. If this is real, there wouldn’t be any walking away this time. There could no longer be a possibility of leaving Gotham behind—he’d come back, he’d _always_ come back for— _to_ them.

All three of them.

It would also mean…it would _mean_ —he could finally put faith into the Bats, he would be able to believe, _without reservations_ , that they wouldn’t abandon him again. After the last few years of trying to make himself let go of those heavy, hurtful doubts, of never being able to just _let_ himself have complete conviction—

With _this_ , he could finally let _go_.

He could call himself a Bat again—and _mean_ it.

Red moves, nuzzling his nose against N’s thumping pulse, and the oldest leans back to look at him, mouth red and wet from his attentions to available skin.

Against the glove, all he can try to say is, “ _please, Dick. **Please**.”_

N’s eyes are dark and hungry with heat and _want_ , “no talking, no yelling—or I’m gagging you. Understand?”

Red blinks up at him and nods slightly, as much as N’s grip will allow.

But Nightwing doesn’t give him any opportunity, just fits his mouth over Red’s, holding his jaw to keep him still, and it’s _perfect_ , that mouth pressed against his again, working him in just the right way, catching his slight noises (until they manage to make him _louder_ —like some kind of _game_ ).

And if there’s anyone that should have a _how to kiss your partner unable to have a thought_ class, N would be _leading_ it because he knows how to read body language down to the muscle twitch, knows how to read _slow down_ , _more_ , _suck_ , and all those in between. He tastes like coffee and something heady as he eats at Red’s mouth, his chest vibrating in a low purr against the back of those bare shoulders.

He’s so lost in the feel, the familiarity, the _want_ (struck again by the years of old desires and the newest _needs_ ) that he doesn’t realize Hood is lowering his thighs, something soft spread under him on the roof top, that the other two are watching with half-mast eyes as N’s grip on him shifts since he’s no longer held up between the three of them. Hood is getting the boots and tights off. Red adjusts arms to be comfortable (because _really_ , the number of times _all_ the Robins have been strung up with bound arms? After a while you learn to bend the elbows just right to make it fine), and Hood leans over his bared body to take over.

The hint of cigarettes and chewing gun, of the Red Hood’s _mouth_ on his, and _God, he missed them_. He’d come to grips with the bittersweet _ache_ of it, suppressing it because, at the time, he was doing the right _thing._ Robin has a grip on his heart, his body, his mind, but the pull is no less powerful than the one these two have always had right along with him. It never would have worked with Dick and Jay for so long if he hadn’t had an equal attraction, been fine with polyamory. But _Robin_ , this smart ass, calm and cool one minute then hot and heavy the next—it’s the way Baby Bat tackled everything, with all-or-nothing, always gave his whole _heart_. And _dammit_ , he’d fallen so _hard_. Robin moved right up into the same space

“Gonna do _terrible_ things to you, Baby Bird.” Hood breathes into his mouth while he pants, looks up into those _eyes_ ( _Jason, you were **my** Robin_ ). “Gonna make you ours, alla ours. Gonna show you where you shoulda always been.”

And Robin, breathing hard himself, watching as N and Hood completely _wreck_ his significant other with more than touch and pleasure, but with their _truths_ , and it makes him hotter, more heat in his veins than he could have planned for, finally shifts his fingers from preparation to—

Hood’s mouth catches Red abrupt cry, all their hands cradling him while he arches in pleasure, while he gets that much _harder_ from Robin’s fingers on his spot, making small circles.

N manages to lick down Red’s ribs, sucks at his hips while Hood keeps his mouth busy. He pauses when Robin uses his free hand to rest lightly at the back of N’s neck, finger the hidden catch.

And those eyes roll up, meet Robin’s.  What could have been awkward, _uncomfortable_ even, is overlaid with the moment. When the three of them met to plan this outing, on how to bring Red _back_ , on how the three of them could get him to accept this new arrangement, he had been uncomfortable for more than one reason. He would have to give up the intimacies between the two of them, to _share,_ but he also agreed to attempt these intimacies with N and Hood. Even while he agreed, Robin had reservations on whether or not he _could_ —

Yet with them, watching and participating, with skin under his hands and mouth, everything in him is pulled toward Nightwing and the Red Hood as strongly as it gravitates toward Red.

Robin finds himself _wanting_ , his hands itching to explore the bodies he has seen numerous times changing out of suits in the Cave to leave the personas behind for the night; the bodies he’s seen bleeding and torn and broken from fighting the good fight; the bodies he’s held and been held against, had saved and been saved by.

Robin did not expect their want, their _need_ to affect him this way, but looking at N’s dark eyes, heat making them gleam in the dim street light, he cannot help but desire this, _them_ , for his own.

He and Red have more in common than he initially realized.

And the epiphany, of how _hard_ his cock is after watching Hood suck at his fingers and N’s agile mouth make _marks_ , marks that could also be made on _him_ , the epiphany makes him shudder.

Low enough to keep it from Red and Hood, N leans in close enough to keep the words between them, “it’s okay, Dami. Whatever you feel is okay. Good or bad, just tell me what you _need_.”

And Robin’s chest hitches in a breath, at the obvious _out_ N is handing him—if this is too much…or not enough. If he says the words, the two of them would leave him and Red on this roof alone to finish what has been started. They would go without question, without hesitation to assure his comfort. If he decides he cannot do _this_ , the two would not hold it against him, would respect his wishes, and _that_ alone—

Robin breathes, and even though he justified all this to himself as being for the good of all four of them (but more for Tim, _habibi_ , for Jason, for Richard—their suffering is unacceptable, not when he can do something about it) in some fashion; for _himself_ , he did not anticipate seeing things clearly as Tim obviously saw them. These two in _need_ , their power, their grace, their _hearts_. And he lets himself get a little lost in N’s gaze, leaning closer, allowing himself to let the possibility take root (and it’s an _odd_ thing, how similar this is to allowing himself to consider Red Robin/Tim Drake as something _more_ ).

Because this man is the one that refused to give up on him—regardless of his sins, his transgressions. The man that took him and taught him, that was the corner stone in giving him some kind of _humanity_.

A man that never saw him as a burden.

A man that forgave him for being a murderer.

A man this is looking at him with heat and anticipation.

A man that wants his as well.

It’s Damian, not Robin, who whispers harshly, “ _Richard_.”

“Tell me, Dami,” and it’s so _deep_ and dark ( _his_ Batman), full of anticipation, of _promise_. “Tell me I can _touch_ you.”

And for N, who remembers the young boy full of rage, a boy that _needed_ in a similar fashion to the way N once _needed_ , he now sees a young man; a young man that also sacrificed for the greater good. A young man in his prime, a young man with grace and power, a young man that will stand with them against all the odds, against the worst the world has to throw at them.

Someone that would take a fatal blow without hesitating.

He sees the needs and wants in Robin, just as clearly as he sees them in Hood, in Red. Those needs and wants echo, make his body tingle, his heart speed up for the possibility he could be included in those needs.

“Yes,” the younger hisses, “Yes, I _want_ —“

“ _Dami_ ,” and he leans up just enough—

The first touch is tentative but only _just_.

Robin’s eyes slide closed, and he opens himself up for N, gives himself _over_.

Hood pulls back enough to let Red get a breath, shifting to line himself up, to get _ready_. The anticipation tingles at the base of his spine, in his cock; the _need_ for Baby Bird, the stark hungers that were always somewhere buried in the Red Hood. Giving this up, giving up the mastermind, the little _asshole_ what had a tendency to get himself hurt protecting everyone else, the loveable pain in the left _nut_ that _is_ Tim Drake, almost broken them—him and Dickie. At the time, they just _assumed_ Timmy needed a break, a breather, and they were gonna let it ride, see when he _could_ come back to them. But, _fuck_ , if they knew _then_ what they knew _now_ —shit would have gone down different.

A hell of a lot actually.

“Jason—“ Red manages to moan against his mouth, bound arms _straining_.

“Stupid, Baby Bird,” the Red Hood fills in, nosing Red’s face to the side, to slide his tongue up his neck, “goddamned _stupid_ t’ think we’d ever _not_ want you, we’d be _fine_ without you or some shit.”

Red gasps, catching the words, the sight of N’s hand against the back of Robin’s neck, turning him for _deeper_ and _more_.

“I… _Jason_ —“

Hood’s big hand clamps on his mouth, quieting him again. “naw. Ain’t the time, Timmy. Finally got ya right where we need ya to be, yeah?” And Hood sucks at the spot on his neck N hadn’t made it to yet, his hips moving forward, twitching, rubbing himself right where he wants to be—deep in _warm_ and _perfect_. Absently, Hood widens his stance to spread Red’s knees further apart. “Ya’ just gonna be a good Robin, ain’t cha? Gonna let us _have_ , you feel me? Let us take what we _need_ , give back what cha need from us?”

Red makes a noise, vibrates through Hood’s glove, goes right to his hard cock. They’ve already got Red to the point of no return, yeah? He ain’t even _trying_ to hold back now, not with alla ‘em there for him.

And it’s right where they need him to be, ain’t it? Nothing between them, no secrets, no hiding anymore.

He darts a look over at N and Rob, N helping Rob out of his hooded cape and then the tunic, hands and mouth moving over Baby Bat whiles he _does it_. With the whiteouts outta the way, he can see the heat building more intense in both of them with every touch, every gasp, every writhe of muscle and sinew, feels his own hard cock leaking while he watches Rob’s hips moving absently, head thrown back under the talent of N’s mouth and hands, biting his lip hard and still can’t hold it in.

S’fine, Baby Bat, _get it_ because Hood knows, he _knows_ just what Big Wing can do when _properly motivated_ and alla that effort is focused on Rob, giving him just what he _needs_ , breaking the youngest outta his usual cool and collected to arch into _touch_ with his own kinda want.

And ain’t it just the right side of perfect, this? Alla them are gonna get just what they _need_ tonight, yeah?

Hood smiles, slow and dirty, and using the hand over Red’s mouth, he directs that gaze to the show, “ain’t that a nice sight, Baby Bird,” said low against his jugular. “Seeing ‘m? Getting each other nice and ready for ya, working themselves _out_ ‘cause they got it so _bad_.”

And it’s _fucking unfair_ because Hood doesn’t let up, doesn’t give him a chance to do anything but moan when his mouth does those _amazing_ things and when he looks over, Robin stands, flushed and panting, muscles trembling, while N works his armored tights over his hips—

To swallow him down to the base, making Robin almost _scream_ with it, folding over N’s broad shoulders, mouth open to pant.

A good blow job never fails to make Robin keen, to lose himself in warm and _wet_ , but N is working him like it’s the _mission_ —to give every ounce of skill and concentration into sucking, licking, taking Robin in _deep_ , making noises low in his chest, purring with the shaky vigilante far gone enough to be draped over him.

“Ri—Richard…” and Robin gives up the fight, fists tight, “ _Dick_ …you must—you must _stop_. I’m close—“ but his body protests, wants _more_.

N responds by gripping the back of Robin’s thighs, straightening up to lift the younger vigilante off the ground just a few inches, working his throat while he holds Robin up with his strength alone.

He lifts his head just enough to catch Red and Hood watching them with hot eyes.

Under Hood’s glove, Red’s chanting _‘Come, Dami. Come for him.’_

Hood, however, grins at the debauched Robin, licking his lips at the soft _noises_ , but he feels _charitable_ tonight, feels merciful. “Big Wing, much as I wanna see you suckin’ Baby Bat’s brains out through his cock—it’s gonna haveta wait ‘til tamarrow night. We got a _plan_ , you feel me?”

N makes a disgruntled noise, but obligingly puts Robin back on his feet and pulls off, holding on to the back of his thighs to keep the youngest of them on his feet until his knees work again, and N just tilts his head back enough, his smile slow at the flushed, panting Robin—so normally collected—eyes dazed with thrum in every nerve ending.

Red’s eyes go wide when N pushes Robin to his knees and bends him over.  Robin braces himself on his elbows, still riding the waves of pleasure, biting into the skin of his wrist at the first touch of fingers—

Robin’s eyes roll up, dark with arousal and highlighted by the domino; he meets Red’s hot gaze as N’s fingers stretch him _perfectly_ , how he likes it the most (and _how_ N knew is a mystery for another night since Robin’s ability to think clearly is becoming more and more _difficult_ ), and mouths at the base of his spine, teeth over the right spots.

A noise is drawn up through his whole body, his chest stuttering and Red’s gaze gets more _intense_.

“Does this please you, _habibi_?” He manages, talking low on another noise, “does this make you _want_?”

He earns another muffled noise, putting him ahead of Todd and forcing a grin just as N finds—

Robin’s throaty call is followed by N’s low, dark laughter.

“Found it, Dami,” N’s dark tone punctuated with another press, another slick finger, “I’m going to make _damn sure_ you’re ready, so ready for him. I’m going to make you come _so close_.”

“N— _Dick_ ,” and Robin’s mouth opens as he pants, making his hand go back to grip N’s hip behind him instead of fisting himself, to heighten this _moment_ when everything is building tighter and tighter.

“I want to see you _come_ so hard,” is a statement of _fact_ , insinuating the lengths N would go to just to _get it_. “On his cock, in my mouth, in Jay’s ass, I want to _see_ it, Dami. All of it. More than that even.”

And a fast, barely comprehensive string of Arabic, Robin’s senses overloaded, but N catches, “all of it,” “take and be taken,” and “I cannot possess more _desire_.”

Nightwing thrusts his fingers deeper, hitting that spot again in response, “Ah, there. You like this?” And N flicks his spot, mouth moving along Robin’s side, hot breath, lips and tongue, the kiss of teeth again, “tell me, Dami. Tell me how I can make you feel good.”

Robin’s eyes slide closed for a moment, so he can make the _attempt_ at gathering thoughts in a linear progression, “Dick, let me…let me—“ and his mouth is already watering for the image.

“Whatever you _need_ ,” is N’s dark reply, a last, slow circle before he pulls his fingers free.

Robin’s thighs tremble slightly when he sits up on his knees, turns to find the already worked catch on the uniform, draws the top half down to reveal skin. N takes advantage, sliding their mouths together again while his chest and arms are bare to the night, helping shove the suit down to his hips while he fucks his tongue in Robin’s mouth. It’s second nature to pull the younger man against him, pressing their bare skin together so he can lick, bite, _take_ , so he can breathe against Robin’s ear, to say, to _growl_ , the stark _truth_ —

“You were mine, _first_ , Dami. _My_ Robin.”

And it has Robin so _close_ , so very _close_ to coming that he has to fist himself between them, tighten around the base of his straining cock, his other hand gripping N’s shoulder to ground himself because he’s so wound _tight_.

“Yes,” he pants without reservation, “ _yes_.”

“I _needed_ you,” N licks just below his ear, the tender spot on Robin’s throat, “I still _do_.”

“Dick,” and Robin’s eyes slide closed, the words going right to the depths of him, “I needed you as—as well. More than I have ever needed _anyone_. I did not realize it…at the time…but I will _always_ need _you_.”

“You have me, Dami. You always have me, and now you have _us_ , all of us.”

And Robin rattles off something in Arabic again, so full of _everything_ he forgets, pants out broken phrases, but N cuts him off, kissing him again, more gentle than before, pouring more than just sex and arousal. Robin’s hands move, one to grip N’s hip to hold them together, pressing his erection into N’s through the uniform, the other around N’s broad shoulders, to keep himself right in _this_ moment.

Red’s mouth is dry at the sight of them, of Robin giving _in_ , allowing himself to be _taken_ , to be given what he _needs_. Any vestiges of reservations are gone watching them while Hood works his body to incredible heights, rubs the thick erection against him, causing him to arch, to moan against the hand still over his mouth.

“Killin’ me here, yous two,” Hood grins, his eyes sparkling blue, “N, why don’t cha bring Rob _right_ _here_ t’ me. Lemme make sure our birds get taken _care_ _of_.”

At that, the two pull back, direct their gazes at Hood and Red still trapped under his body, writhing.

“J—Jason,” Robin tries, but the thought cuts off when N thumbs his tight nipples and his smile is white against the night.

“Good plan, Jay. I think we’ve teased Red enough for the moment.”

Robin nods in agreement, biting his lip, but N has him in a firm hold regardless of his shaky legs, mostly lifting him. Hood moves his hand, takes one last taste of Red’s mouth before he straightens up, helps N get Rob into place, straddling Baby Bird.

Hood tosses his gloves off and gets his hands where they need to be, palming the side of Rob’s neck to turn his face around and take that mouth, replace N’s taste with his and Red’s, giving Baby Bat no chance to come down even a little. He wants to keep the momentum, to make Baby Bat stay right on the knife’s _edge_. And he takes alla noises down into his chest, makes the kiss just this side of _dirty_.

And now that he _knows_ how much Rob has a _need_ of his own, well, ain’t it just coincidence Hood has just the right kind of inclination to give it?

N moves behind him, works the body suit down Hood’s back, pulling it down so he can free his arms, let him go back to running a hand over the front of Rob’s body, finding the sensitive spots to make the younger man arch into his touch while Hood uses every technique he’s _got_. His tongue wraps around Robin’s, licking him, tasting all of him without holding back, making it _deep_ and _wet_ and _perfect_.

Hood moans in Robin’s mouth when N palms his throbbing cock, that mouth on the side of his throat.

And he likes Robin panting in his mouth, eyes half-mast, hands clenching. God, he’s _pretty_ like this. Demon all wound up for them, fulla the right kind of _need_ what fits perfectly in line, and Hood gives him alla it, through touch and taste; his hips work cause right there is Baby Bird’s hard cock, shiny and wet, and he grinds himself and Red against Robin’s ass, reaching around to palm him with N, just this side of perfect.

Pulling off his mouth, Hood uses a hand on Robin’s jaw, turn him, thumb rubbing circles right at the hinge before slipping over to push in the youngest’s mouth, give him time to stretch that neck out under his tongue and teeth.

“Fuck, so _good_ like this, Dami,” Hood breathes against his neck before he _bites_. “Pretty Bird feels _righteous_.”

Robin throws his head back over Hood’s shoulder, huffing noises out against his thumb.

“An’ I’ma _like_ taking you in, alla way, let you _fuck_ me, let you fill me up, baby. Once Timmy gets _the fucking picture_ here, you and me, we’re gonna have some _time_. Dickie doesn’t get ta just have ya ta himself, you feel me?”

Robin’s chest stutters, the noise coming out of him higher-pitched, his cock getting hard, _throbbing_ under their hands.

“I’ma show you how _nice_ and _easy_ I can ride ya, how deep I can take ya in. Then, when yer just ‘bout ready ta come, ya can turn me right the fuck over and give it t’ me _hard_ and _fast_ , make me come on ya cock, Baby Bat. Yeah, you’d like that. Fuck me _deep_ while we watch Timmy and Dickie going the rounds right next t’ us.”

Robin’s hand fist at his thighs, hips working.

N laughs, low and dirty, threads a hand through Hood’s short hair, tugs him off Robin’s throat, earning an irritated noise, sliding their mouths together.

Between the exchange of tongue, Hood is still running his mouth, “but, _Dickie_ , mmph, lookit how good he’s bein’ for us.”

“He is,” N agrees, “and we’re killing them, you _tease_.”

Hood just grins, wide and white before diving back to lick into N’s mouth before pulling back, leaning to press kisses to Robin’s jugular.

“S’alright. C’mon Rob, like I said atcha, we got _time_. Let’s get with the main attraction, yeah?”

Robin finally releases his thumb with a moan, turning, flushed, eyes glittering, outlined by his domino, “I will— I want _all_ of it, Jason. I will hold you to it, _all_ of it.”

“Oh, I _hope_ the fuck so, Baby Bat. Gonna feel so good in me,” and Hood slides his cock down, rubbing the head over Red’s wet, stretched opening, biting his lip at _this_ , at all of this—

N moves, all sinew and grace, his suit still half on, crawling up Red’s body while Robin shifts his hips, lines himself up and—

N’s mouth is on Red’s when Hood sinks inside him _to the hilt_ while Robin sinks down on him, taking him inside tight, wet, _heat_ —

His body jackknifes, legs twitching hard, shoving himself up inside Robin and impaling himself on Hood’s hard cock. N is there to just swallows his cries down as Hood lays his forehead on Robin’s shoulder, panting, an arm around the younger vigilante while he _throbs_ being inside Baby Bird again, and it’s _so fucking good_. He absently runs his hands over Robin’s front while giving Red time to adjust, lightly palming Robin’s aching erection.

He feels the tremble go through Robin’s thighs and lifts his head to run his tongue over the pulsing jugular, clamps down to _suck_.

Robin throws a hand up, grips the back of Jason’s neck to press him closer, writhing, and so _full_ —

“He feels so good in you, don’t he, Pretty Bird?” Is moaned against his ear, “just the right kinda fit.”

Hood presses his chest into Robin’s back, holding them together, supporting the trembling bird, stroking him slow and lose, just a tease. His free hand finds purchase on Robin’s hip so they can move together when it’s time and make Red _scream_.

“Yes,” Robin pants out, eyes fluttering closed, “yes, _habibi_ …fills me to the breaking point,” and he swivels his hips just slightly, just enough to make his chest stutter, turning just so— “I would… I want to _know_ how full you could make me. _Jason_ , I want to find this out—“

Hood latches on, sliding their mouths together, licking in to taste as N finally lets up on Red a little.

“So good, Timmy,” N finally breathes in his mouth, “you needed this… I think we all do.”

“Dick… _I_ —“

But Dick shudders and cuts him off, pressing his mouth back, licking over Tim’s lips, giving everyone time to adjust before the next part starts.

“You gave up a piece of your _heart_ , Timmy,” is an admonishment between tongue and pressure, “you didn’t _talk_ to us about what was best _for us_.” And N pulls back enough to make sure he’s _getting through_. “You don’t get to be the only one that makes decisions when all of us are affected.”

And, _yes_ , yes he’d pretty much done just that—and it’s right on the tip of his tongue to promise, to _mean it_ , to apologize since he _hadn’t_ , but N just leans in to press gentle kisses to his bruised throat, making soft sounds in the depths of his chest. But Red just leans enough to put his face against N’s neck, to nose at the soft skin right behind his ear, shut his eyes _tight_.

“I’m sorry, Dick. I’m _sorry_ I hurt you, both of you.”

The bare chest against his heaves in a sigh, but his voice is stern, almost angry, “make it up to me, Tim.”

And he _means_ it when he says “ _anything_.”

N just leans up to look at him head-on, “don’t do it again. Don’t do this to us _ever again_.”

Hood hears it in and out, easing up on Robin’s mouth just slightly, both thumbs working—one on Robin’s jaw and the other in the sweet niche of his hip.

“Move with me, Pretty Bird. Need t’ see ya make y’self feel good on Timmy’s cock. Wanna hear those _noises_ again.”

“ _Mahbub qiada ‘ana_.” Robin manages, _Lead me_.

And Hood keeps them pressed together, back-to-chest, while he makes a line of sensual kisses up the span of Baby Bat’s throat, “ _sawf 'utabie 'aydaan ‘ant eind alaihtiaj ,_ ” is breathed in Robin’s ear ( _“I will also follow you”_ ).

Robin turns just enough to catch Hood’s eyes, blinking at the admission, of being full, of being included, of his body telling him to _move_ , and his mind telling him that perhaps—perhaps Hood _means_ those words.

As if reading his mind, the Red Hood comes back to slide their mouths together again, no teasing or play, but hard and wet and _deep_.

He doesn’t let up, just tightens the hand on Robin’s hip and starts the two of them on a torturously slow rhythm.

Red’s eyes roll back, his thighs tightening around Hood’s waist when the two, on him and in him, start to _move_.

N glances back, a satisfied smile taking over. Well, the possible issues he foresaw between Robin and the Red Hood have apparently been… _handled_.

He leans up, shoves his suit the rest of the way down below his ass, and the reinforced jock is just gone. “Your call, Timmy.” And Red’s eyes are glazed over, mouth hanging open, being jarred by Hood’s thrusts, when he seems to realize N is talking to him. “I’m either going to hold you down or fuck your mouth, so what do you want to be gagged with?”

“Like—ah, _God! Jay, **fuck**_ —like that’s even a—a question?” Red tightens his legs around the Red Hood’s waist, arching his body, leveraging enough to work up _deeper_ into Robin’s warmth, earning the _right_ kind of keen with it, and hands bracing his sides when he works back down to be filled _up_ , make Hood bite out a noise against Robin’s jugular.

And they let him _work them_.

Robin lets his head loll back on the Red Hood’s broad shoulder, face turned into his throat, and Hood braces his knees to work with Red’s rhythm with Baby Bat under his hands.

Finally with some control (thank _fuck_ ), Red’s eyes darken at N, and his pink tongue comes out, wets his lips.

“I want you to be able to see them,” N orders in a low growl, almost a rolling purr.

Red doesn’t look away from N, just thrusts harder, fucks up into Robin, and the youngest twitches, eyes rolling back when Red finds _that spot_.

“Get the _fuck_ over here and let me suck you. _Now_.”

And no, there’s no possible way N can resist _that_ call—panting, cupping the back of Red’s neck—and the half-strangled sound caught in his chest. Warm and _wet_ , taking him in deep, making noises around his hard cock when Hood’s hips pump at the perfect angle, meeting Red’s thrusts, or in tandem with Robin when the younger bird shoves himself down abruptly.

N just leans over to brace on hand on the roof, moaning as he moves, half his brain watching the blinking red lights around them (because, well, _Bats_ ) to assure no threat would catch them unaware, while the other half is lost in this moment: Hood and Robin and Red and him, right where they need to be.

And the rhythm drives on, the heat rising, muscles twitching, hips moving, the sounds of pleasure bordering on _pain_ , skin on skin bringing them all closer to the brink.

Red’s eyes go from N’s pained face, the grip tight on the back of his neck, to Robin writhing, working his hips to meet Red’s thrusts while he half-lies on Hood and moans without reservation, to Hood licking up Robin’s neck and rolling his hips in just the _perfect_ way to make Red moan those unconscious _noises_ right against the tip of N’s cock in the back of his throat.

Robin has raked lines bloody lines in his own thighs, bitten his lip raw, gripped at Hood behind him to _hold back_. N seems as suddenly possessive as Hood, taking his capitulation for what it precisely _is_ —the opportunity to _take_ , _give_ , and _own_. N reaches out without leaving Red’s hot mouth, pulling Robin forward enough to mouth at his neck, lead up to his mouth and _take_ , run a bare hand over the underside of his throbbing cock, a ghost of a touch. Those blue eyes watch every reaction, every twitch, and Robin feels as though N is memorizing every sensitive spot on his body. This _feeling_ , being owned and owning, slides right into the base of his spine and curls around to settle. When Hood draws him back, he goes hungry for _more_ of this intimacy, this _carnal_ act. For one that must hold himself _back_ at all times, this release, allowing himself to _let go_ is just as addicting as the raw and furious pleasure.

Hood, who’d had a pique of _interest_ when N brought up the _maybe we coulds_ , dives right back in, taking Baby Bat’s mouth, eyes sliding over to N’s while he _does it_. His hips stutter a beat when Robin makes a noise in his mouth, and he thumbs those tight nipples to earn another, but N groans deep in his chest watching them work themselves on Red, work each other.

And like a signal is thrown, Hood grips Red around the back _tight_ , fucking up hard, holding Baby Bird finally still. He presses Rob down with the other hand and laughs quietly as he starts essentially pounding into Red hard enough to drive him right against Baby Bat’s perfect _spot_.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Hood grits out, listening to the strangled screams around N’s hard cock. “ _Fuck,_ baby…m’ gonna make him fill ya up _nice_. Give ya what ya _need_.”

Eye rolling back, Robin makes a noise of affirmation because he can’t _think_ , he’s so _close_ —

Red can only tighten his legs a little, the hard thrusts, the tight warmth, the slightly salty weight against his tongue all bringing him to the _breaking point_. He can’t focus on his arms going numb or the hard surface digging into his shoulders, all he can do is whimper against it all.

“C’mon, Timmy,” N’s voice dark and shaky, so _hard_ and close himself.

Robin beats him to it, tightening, shuddering against Hood’s hold, and the older Bat eats his cries right down for safekeeping. He only needs to give Red a few quick more thrusts before Baby Bird gets just the right kinda _tight_ when he comes so sweetly, just what Hood needs to bury himself _deep_ and let go while he fucks his tongue in Rob’s panting mouth.

N almost collapses when Red sucks him dry, his low, growling made into the roof while he braces himself on one elbow, driving his cock _deep_ in Red’s throat as he comes.

And after all _that_ , the three start to shakily extract themselves from the center. Hood tries to take care of them both, pulling slowly out, one hand gently rubbing Red’s shaky thigh while he winds an arm around Robin to help the lax bird ease up and off. He manages to wrangle them both over Red’s leg to lay out against the roof to let some kind of strength come back. N pulls away with a groan, sitting up to ease back; a hand on Red’s hip moves him enough that N can reach the restraints and flick them open.

Blood runs back into his wrist and hands, and he manages to flop his head over and meet N’s sated and intent gaze. Slowly, N leans back down, noses at his cheek before pressing against his mouth and sliding in to claim all over again. This time, Red can grip his shoulders, can hold _on_. And when Robin and Hood manage to come out of the _sex-coma_ enough to crawl their way up his body to get theirs, well, his hand and arms are enough to hold them, too.

**

He wakes up in the Perch, his own bed, pressed up against Dami’s bare front with a leg thrown over his thighs. When he cracks his lids, Dick is right over Dami’s shoulder, a long arm thrown carelessly over both their hips. A slight turn of the head to look over a shoulder, and Jay is breathing out against the back of his shoulders, so _different_ when he’s relaxed with sleep. They’re in lockdown, that much he remembers, but how or in which order they all got clean is still somewhat fuzzy. He may or may not have been carried the majority of the way back, being traded between the three of them after some intense cuddling and post-orgasmic, dream-like kissing.

He vaguely remembers hands soaping him up, bodies pressing against him, moaning when Dick slides inside him this time, holding him up, taking him while Dami kneeling down to suck him, and Jay grunting against the side of Dick’s neck and right into Tim’s shoulder.

_God—these three are going to kill him_

Just, yes.

But Tim uses every trick he’s ever learned as a Bat to ease out from between them, strafing around on silent feet to pull on boxers and a t-shirt from his drawer, and, _really_ , it’s apparently not a secret that he collects articles of clothing; Jay has already sworn to reclaim his hoodies and sweats (never happening), Dick completely tolerates the filching of his t-shirts, and Dami has learned to suffer losing pairs of work-out shorts.

So, he throws on an amalgamation—Dick’s tshirt, Dami’s shorts, and Jay’s sweats over them.

Good enough message.

He lets them get much needed sleep and starts coffee brewing, moving with a slight hitch in his step as he collects pieces of suits all over the living room from wherever they’ve been tossed—Robin’s utility belt and boots, Hood’s jacket and holsters, those gloves with the crazily arousing fingerstripes. He makes a call in to the best place on this side of Gotham to have a _huge_ breakfast delivered (and _yes,_ foreseeable need for calories and proteins).

And it’s a crazy thing, while he stands at the counter, scooping up the pot for the first shot at caffeine, to realize he’s laid out the three mugs specially reserved for each of the men currently in his bed. Somehow, somewhere along the way of coming _back_ to the Bats, the chasm that once separated them, the fracture in those relationships, finally seemed to ease, to heal. Regardless of old choices and pain, the four of them could come together, could function just as good together as they did a part, and _this_ seemed to be some final step in a long-coming end of the road.

It feels just this side of how it was all supposed to play out.

Tim ruminates while sipping on his coffee, a stupid half-smile on his still-sleepy face.

There would be movie nights at the Manor in their old way of witty banter and wrestling, and then there would be movie nights here or at Dick and Jay’s apartment with _closeness_ and laughter and falling asleep in each other’s laps. There would be fights with baddies, as per the norm, and there would continue to be someone at his back when he needed it, and he would fight like _hell_ to have them—to keep certain _promises_. Any of the three of them would call his cell, bellowing out about the sensors in his suit sending alerts, and his own pissed off rants over speaker when he’s running like hell to get to any _one_ or _all_ of them.

It would be so much _harder_ this time, but fuck is it going to be worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, this is my first foursome, so please feel free to lemme know how it went.


	24. Subdue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ra's al Ghul's plans have finally come to fruition  
> NON-CONSENSUAL TOUCHING, DISCUSSIONS OF RAPE: PLEASE BE AWARE. DO NOT READ IF YOU TRIGGER .  
> I DO NOT CONDONE WHAT HAPPENS IN THIS FIC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an idea discussed between myself and my lovely soul mate, Titans. It was posted on Tumblr with warnings. It's hard to read, so be aware. This is a very creepy, obsessed Ra's. AND DO NOT CONTINUE IF THIS KIND OF CONTENT MAKES YOU HAVE BAD FEELS. There is a rescue, but the effects are there.

Ra’s al Ghul has sat on the throne of the Demon’s Head for over eight hundred years.

The throne itself is immense, gold, heavy, opulent, ornate; in all the years he’s reigned over the League of Assassins, he’s become accustomed, even become _fond_ of the garish thing. More so because it does serve so many, many purposes. Several fasteners for chains are carved _into_ it, so the Demon’s Head’s personal slaves may be affixed to it while he is holding court and serve him as necessary.

And Ra’s is very _comfortable_ in it today when his long laid plans have finally sprouted to _fruition_.

Evident by the writhing, nude Detective chained down right in his _lap_. His wrists are lashed to the arms of the throne, his knees forced apart by chains on either side, opening him up to every thinkable _possibility;_ more chains on his ankles keep him from flailing, so their other guests may watch _unhindered_.

And he laughs, low and deep, echoing in the cave around them, a maniacal madness, a part of the Pit he takes away each time he is _reborn_.

Timothy Drake, still blindfolded, perfectly and prettily restrained, flinches at it, but there is _nowhere to run_. He breathes deeply through his nose, trying to get air, and the gag must be most _disconcerting_. Now, the Detective surely knows whom is responsible for his _safekeeping_ , and after so long, planning for this moment, _waiting_ for the right time to spring the _trap_ , Ra’s is drunk with complete and utter _victory_.

He allows himself _indulgence_ , the skin and scars pressing against his naked chest beckons his hands, his _mouth_ , his complete worship. And he sucks against the tendons straining in Timothy’s neck, fingers spread wide up ribs and indents, slide over what is _his_ , what has always been _his_. Thumbs over beautifully pink nipples, tightening under his attentions, and Ra’s hips, with only the thin material of his pants separating them, twitches up against Timothy’s bare ass when muted noises from behind the gag reach him.

Such distress in the darkness, Detective.

But his eyes, glittering green, move over the two _thorns in his side_ hanging by their wrists over the abyss. Legs restrained above the knees and ankles, prepared for the inevitable. Below, a lovely _surprise_ in the form of acidic toxins, a failed yet effective experiment in the realm of chemical warfare. Unfortunately, with the damage it could wreak against the Earth, Ra’s could not abide its’ use—for Jason Todd and Richard Grayson, however, it would be most _appropriate_. The least left of them, the _better_.

The two are _livid_ as he touches, and _takes_ , both jerking uselessly in their chains, hanging side-by-side, prepared to meet their ends _together_. Poignant but their struggles are rather pointless. His people have stripped away all their little _toys_ , each and every one of their plans, and their last sight on this Earth will be of Timothy Jackson Drake, their lover, writhing in pleasure on Ra’s al Ghul’s lap.

To spite them, smirking into their murderous gazes, his hands travel lower while his hips work himself against the Detective’s back, and the muscles quiver under his fingers, _beg_ for his touch.

“So much softer than I imagined, Timothy,” he breathes into the pink shell of the ear, biting on the lobe, sucking it into his mouth, silver rings and all. “You seduce me so well, so _completely_. Very _few_ in my lifetime have made me _want_ such as I do _you_.”

And still the Detective tries to fight him, _defies_ his will, trying to jerk his hips away; Ra’s tightens one hand, a bruising grip, to hold him in place while the other—

The noise when Ra’s palms him, begins to stroke, oh so slowly, a cry of despair from behind the gag.

“You will come to _understand_ ,” in between words, he mouths, sucks, bites along his throat, licks his cheeks around the straps of the gag, “that when I _desire_ something, it will eventually be _mine_ , even if I must _take it_.”

Even if his whole body is recoiling, _fighting_ , the Detective is beginning to _respond_.  Light pink spreads from his cheeks to his chest, tantalizing Ra’s with so much bare _skin_ , making him throb while he thrusts up against Timothy’s back, and no amount of thrashing can stop the body’s reaction to _pleasure_ , to one that observes each response, maps out each erogenous area, and takes complete _control_ to dominate and _possess_.

It is surely against the Detective’s _best interest_ (as well as the _rest_ of his loved ones) to fight it any longer; no, the Demon’s Head has been devoted in his _study_ as soon as the budding Bat thwarted his mortal enemies while also taking down the League’s mainframe from _within_ and _right under his very nose_. From that moment, a spark of a thought, the _what if_ he had chosen the wrong Bat as his heir? More and more evidence pointed to this conclusion as time went on, and his fascination becomes _obsession_.

Ra’s moans into Timothy’s ear, slick added to make the glide _sweeter_ as he slowly works the Detective to hardness. The muffled noises, the writhing ass against his cock, the scarred, sensitive skin under his wandering hand, all of it drives him to utter _madness_.

He’s incredibly sensitive, his Detective ( _Beloved_ ), his body so deliciously _responsive_ to touch—both tender and firm. Sweeter still, is how he _fights_ against it—the heat building, encompassing—as his body is so accustomed to _pain_ , to fighting, to never give _up_ , it merely means he is so much more receptive to _pleasure_. Helpless almost.

And finally, Ra’s has found a _weakness_.

He licks over the thundering pulse, sucking at the younger man’s _life’s blood_ pumping through his veins, and before they come any closer to the _climax_ , he has one more _point_ to make with this little show. Ra’s releases the hip and removes the blindfold. With Timothy’s chin in his free hand, he points the Detective’s gaze to his struggling, bound lovers, slowly being lowered to their deaths.

“Now…you _understand_.”

And the fighting begins anew, pulling and straining as much as he can bound so tightly, enough to make him bleed where the cuffs cut into bare skin. His Detective is screaming something behind the gag, so perfectly muffled, only stuttering when Ra’s wraps his arm over Timothy’s chest to play with a taunt nipple, working his cock _faster_ , _tighter_ , forcing him down to be cradled in the niche of Ra’s body.

“A potent chemical weapon, Detective. One that will end them within seconds— _painless_ ,” breathed against Tim’s cheek, “quite merciful of me, wouldn’t you agree?”

And Jason Todd yells back against the tape effectively gagging him, bare wrists flexing in the bindings, his body undulating, the struggle more amusing than effective.

“And once they are gone, you will _succumb_ to me, again and again. I will know your body better than _you_ , Detective, and you will remain by my side willingly, or I will begin the process with each and every one you have ever _loved_. All of them will watch as I claim you just before they _die_.” And he bites into Timothy’s neck, moaning into this delicious _skin_ , thrusting himself up harder, the coils of his orgasm building. “I’ll begin with Tamara Fox, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, my own darling little Prudence. I’ll move on to your _team_ , Timothy. I’ve watched them all closely for years, finding their weaknesses, cultivating what I would need to subdue them.” And the whimper, the stuttering of the chest beneath his arm is the beginnings of the Detective’s _realization_.

The game is over.

And Ra’s al Ghul is the _winner_.

Jason and Dick are only visible from the waist up, already passed the massive stone ledge where the throne overlooks the darkness. Just from their eyes, intent on Timothy’s face, straying unavoidably to the hand working his cock faster. And even from where he is positioned, Ra’s can _see_ it. He can see it in every straining muscle, every bead of sweat, every flex of a scar, and noise from pink lips, he can see how the man in his arms is _addicting_ , _intoxicating_. He is worth the invasion of kingdoms, the clash of armies, the death of monarchs. He is meant to be _owned_.

“However, as long as you are mine…all of them may live.”

His free hand fists in Timothy’s soft hair, long and fitting for him, stirring the neat tail lose so he can make the Detective watch his lovers sinking lower, nosing behind his ear, licking the hinge of his jaw.

“But before they die, I want them to see you come for me, _Beloved_ ,” Ra’s moans, nudging his face against Timothy’s wet one, the younger man’s chest vibrating against his arm, muffled screams of pain and pleasure.

Jay and Dick are only visible from the shoulders up, yelling against their gags, eyes narrow and wet, helpless to do anything but watch the assault on the man they _love_ , that they’d give their lives to _protect_ —

And just as Ra’s wants, Timothy’s cock throbs in his hand, reacts to the warm, wet pressure, his thighs trembling with strain and unwilling pleasure as he comes, watching his lovers disappear from sight while he’s helplessly struggling, screaming, _crying_ , being worked firmly, gently through his orgasm as Ra’s tongue slides from his shoulder to throat. The sharp edges of pain permeate his hazy mind because his forearms and biceps are straining, twisting in the restraints.

The tips of their fingers sink down out of sight, the chains still moving as the Bats struggle against their fate, plunging further down into the dark. In less than fifty feet, the asphyxiation would begin.

In that time, he would tether his Beloved’s wrists behind his back and carry him back to their chamber. Even if he is becoming _desperate_ , Ra’s will take his time in preparing the smaller man to be taken. His purposes are two-fold, the Detective will be drugged, more receptive to suggestion while also carving in the very important lesson—he is now _owned_. Ra’s will be certain the Detective is weak from pleasure and stretched from play, lashed to the Demon Head’s opulent bed, collared, and tied open to be claimed, the sweet spoils of victory.

His body will be explored, _debauched_ in every way, so he will finally understand, every noise, every arc of pleasure is at Ra’s _will_. He will know it once he is opened and taken and filled, so beautifully sprawled out, mindless—

And the soft _thwip_ is lost in the sound of Ra’s moaning while he releases Timothy’s cock and moves further down, fondling trembling balls, and moves again until the pad of his finger is circling the entrance to the young Detective’s body.

**

Tim is _faster_. Once Robin flew up from the darkness of the abyss, wearing a rebreather and two hitchhikers holding on to his line behind him, all three of them threw batarangs with deadly accuracy, freeing the chains. He snaps into automatic motion ( _Robin training_ ).

Just before Ra’s finger breaches his body, he’s up to come around with enraged _vengeance_. Faster than can almost be seen, his blow takes out Ra’s jaw hard enough to knock the immortal completely out of the throne and onto the floor—the Iron Backfist.

Once Ra’s al Ghul is a drooling puddle of _alive_ but probably with a broken jaw, his knees give way and spill him onto the cold floor of the cave, and his shaky hands come up, trying to get the gag out of his mouth, chains jingling around him, still attached to the cuffs on his wrists, thighs, and ankles. He doesn’t even realize he’s making soft, hurt noises.

Robin takes the rebreather out and sprints toward the fallen vigilante, the very much _alive_ , N and Hood right on his heels. Fortunately, Robin is apparently _the intelligent one_ and brought extras as exposure to any of Grandfather’s “failed experiments” is a horrible way to _die_.

Before he even gets to the fallen bird, his cape is off his shoulders; as he gingerly kneels, he lays it over Tim’s bare, trembling body just as one side of the gag rips out, and the older gasps in a deep, stuttering breath. The cape is big enough to cover him completely, and he gathers the material tight around himself, eyes dazed, and Robin eases the hood up, extremely careful to keep his touch light, barely there.

“Baby,” Jason drops to his knees right in front of Tim, “ _baby_ , we’re right here. Are—”

“Alive,” the hoarse, wet tone is telling, “you’re both _alive_.”

And it _breaks_ them, looking at Tim bent over, braced on his hands, those _fucking chains_ , and he’s shaking so _hard_ —

“Timmy,” Dick whispers, his own arms trembling minutely, held open in front of him, “Timmy, please look at me.” And he waits, makes a hurt noise in the back of his throat when Tim finally _does_. “Oh, baby. Please let me—” and his fingers flicker in a _just let me **hold you**_ motion.

Even feeling like he might just pass out or vomit or throw himself off the damn ledge, Tim manages a small nod, eyes spilling over abruptly.

Dick moves in enough to ease his arms around their third, their lynchpin, and pulls Tim right into the curve of his body, cradling him close, whispering nonsense about how scared they were for him, how they won’t _ever_ let this happen again, how sorry he is Ra’s _hurt_ him like this, how much he _loves_ him.

Over Robin’s cape, Jason lays a gentle hand on the back of his neck, leans his forehead lightly on the hood. When Dick sucks in a breath, Jason puts in his own two cents. How much he wants what to shove his _favorite_ knife _deep_ in Ra’s guts an’ make ‘em _scream_ ta die.  He ain’t got no _right_ laying hands on you, Timmy, and if he ever tries it, they’re gonna bury him _alive_. See how much he likes _that shit right there_. No Pit. No coming _back_ , mother _fucker_.

Jay’s help seems to make him stop shaking so hard, the abrupt kick of adrenaline possibly wearing off. Hands out of the folds of Robin’s cape, one arm around Dick’s neck, other hand seeking. Jason catches it, brings it to his mouth for a kiss in the center of Tim’s palm.

Robin has dragged his Grandfather by the ankle, thrown him back in his throne. With a sneer, a horrible wash of memory and he’s opening a compartment with _spares_ as well as Grandfather’s personal _collection_.

Taking his time to allow Grayson and Todd to calm Drake (and shuddering involuntarily when his mind’s eye: Tim spread out naked over his Grandfather’s body, face red and wet, looking utterly _destroyed_ with the thought of the other two Bats dead and himself trapped in Grandfather’s web). Any residual, deeply buried _regard_ for his blood kin has been utterly eradicated with this _heinous_ act.

Tapping the comm in his ear, he keeps his voice low while he speaks to his partner, listening to the background noise of Cyborg cracking their League’s systems while the others are finishing up the fight on the levels above them. Giving them privacy allows him to shakily recount the general trap, feeling his stomach turn sour with the calm and detached statement, _Grandfather was sexually assaulting Tim in front of Grayson and Todd_. _They are alive, however, that is as far as I know at the moment_.

The cuffs go on the extremities of the Demon’s Head with swift, sure movements; the chains attached at the furthest most points, pulled as far as possible. Robin _sneers_ at the unconscious immortal, cursing him as a dishonorable _cur_. A blight on his bloodline, a _stain_.

And leaves the man for the authorities. Through the comm, the Batman is moving now and speaking softly (recognizing how shaken Robin is without much more than familiarity). With Grandfather’s recent rounds of terrorist attacks to deflect from the kidnapping of Red Robin, he’d finally earned attention from A.R.G.U.S. and highest levels of authority. He would be _detained_ until an account of his crimes could be calculated.

Robin takes a breath before he kneels by his brothers, trying not to be as… _abrasive_ as usual, recognizing the need for delicacy (and Father said he’s learned _nothing_ from Pennyworth in all these years— _tt_ ).

“I am…sorry, Tim, but I must ask,” he begins calmly, looking with the whiteouts up so the older vigilante can see his eyes, “have you been drugged?”

Dick and Jason perk up slightly, but try not to ruffle Tim, who is finally calm enough to raise his forehead off Jay’s shoulder, hood obscuring his face.

“It could just be a concussion,” but just from his tone, even he knows he’s reaching.

Robin hums a little, taking a hand-held hypodermic and vacuum-sealed container from his utility belt. “I am…sorry, but I need a sample to check.” And as the older bird suffered from lower immunities, Robin pushes the issue, holding out a gloved hand, waiting.

Tim’s arm comes out from the overlapping folds of the cape, fitting his hand into Robin’s wrist up and turns against Dick’s neck to blink hazy eyes. “Baby Bat,” is hoarse, wobbly, drawing his gaze immediately, “thanks for the save.”

Robin smiles grimly, pressing the tip of the hand-held against Tim’s forearm and pulling the trigger. Not even a flinch as the container splashes with blood. “Thanks are not necessary, Drake. This world would be more insufferable than it is now if you were not around to bother. These two would be my undoing.”

And it’s just so _Dami_ that the laugh pulled from his chest is genuine—it fights back the wetness in his eyes, the stains on his body from unwilling capitulation. It was _normal_ and that’s…exactly what he needs.

“I need my clothes,” is the beginnings of his brain coming back online in _vigilante_ mode instead of _I’ll never be clean again_. “I have to move.”

“The JLA is cleaning up the last stragglers in this compound,” Robin pulls the hand-held back, pulling a spare comm from his belt, already feeling the energy starting to pick up under Tim’s skin, the need to _do something_.

Robin is already pulling another small test tube from his belt, mixing Tim’s blood into the blue-ish liquid, shaking the tube in one hand while he assesses the three Bats tightly intertwined.

“A.R.G.U.S. is en route for pick-up. With Grandfather in custody, the League will scatter to the winds.”

And there is _no way in hell_ he’s meeting any A.R.G.U.S. agents in just Robin’s cape and bare feet.

Fuck. _No._

The Justice League, however, is another story.

Specifically when they come crashing through the network of underground caves with game faces _on_. B, unsurprisingly, is the first one through, teeth bared in an unholy snarl of _time to bring pain_. The Batman didn’t kill, it wasn’t his _way_ , but he had very few issues beating the ever loving _fuck_ out of someone that hurt one of his Robins—most the criminals in Gotham _understood_ it enough to _know_ better.

A few seconds for the team of superheroes to take in the substantial _lack_ of fighting as the birds are fast to their feet, already back in Bat mode. N and Hood hover over Red’s shoulders, Robin stands in the front, slightly to Red’s left automatically to stay out of the way of his throwing hand.

B holds up a hand and the League scatters, Superman to get a sample of the chemical gas to synthesize some way to dispose of it, Lantern takes to the air, going to wait and direct the A.R.G.U.S. agents when they hit the scene. Wonder Woman saunters over to check on Ra’s al Ghul, cracking her knuckles with utter _delight_. She hopes he wakes up. She _hopes_ he escapes the chains. She hopes for just two minutes, _two minutes_.

She faces him with her feet shoulder width apart and ready for even a _twitch_.

B, however, approaches his birds, a hand squeezing Robin’s shoulder while he takes all three of them in. “We’re good here. Time to go home.”

Hood is fitting the helmet back on, synths already hiding his voice, “need ta find Red’s gear, B. Still MIA, you feel me?”

From behind the lenses, B’s eyes slide to the silent, hooded Red, only the lower half of his bare face visible, but he holds back his cape and turns enough for the Robins to see—

Him wearing a beat-up Shaun White backpack covered with patches, stickers, and safety pins.

A twitch of the hooded head and the flicker of white in the dim, a sharp smirk. B will take that.

“The Batplane will be overhead in a few minutes,” he gingerly steps into their formation, his gloved hand gentle on the ball of Red’s shoulder while he looks N and Hood over for any obvious injuries. The backpack exchanges hands; Batman and Robin turn to give Red privacy (a _barrier_ ) while N and Hood help with the bands and chains attached. The heavy chime when each one hits the hard ground is a note of freedom no matter how much it hurts to come off blood crusted, bruised, sprained wrists and ankles.

Hood and N are absurdly gentle once the bands come off, using quick supplies from utility belts and hidden pouches to do quick clean-up of the injuries. Red’s motions are faster, more efficient, less concerned with pain, moving inside Robin’s cloak, hiding the fine trembling of his hands. He wants the damn things _off_.

To keep him out of his head and in the current situation, they back-and-forth about the details of the fight and Ra’s incarceration. Robin subtly slips Batman the results of the blood test, and the Caped Crusader glances down at the liquid vial churning from blue to a lighter green. He blinks and his free hand tightens in anger, a hiss of leather.

He and Robin exchange a nod, the capped tube disappearing into Batman’s utility belt for further analysis—the primary drug in Red’s system, however, is an aphrodisiac. Probably a rare pollen from Ra’s extensive collection of rare and extinct plants (that _bastard_ was trying to force Tim to _enjoy_ — his eyes dart over to Diana and Clark, both of them glaring down at the immortal; they catch the slight motion of B’s cowl and nod gravely, getting the _point_. Batman is going to take care of his bird first, _then_ there’s better be enough left to _Beat. Down_ ).

Hood takes a knee, holds out boxers and the helmet tilts up in question, a whole lot of _is this okay? Can I do this?_ N stands close enough for Red to brace a hand, watching every move discreetly (and he _understands_ , Tim, he’s _been there_ , and he’s never told anyone about, about Tarantula and— maybe it’s the time) to gague how much and what areas he could touch, careful when muscles flinch under his fingers. He gentles, but doesn’t let go of Red’s bicep ( _let us help you, don’t hide_ ) while the shaky vigilante steps into the offered clothing, making the older ones grateful they can do _something_. Grateful Red is back far enough with the Bats to allow _this_.

Taking care of him.

N hands Hood the pair of jeans from the backpack, bracing Red with a palm against his back, ducking down a little for the arm around his shoulders.

With pants at least, he feels more together, pulling Robin’s cape off. Hood is already standing to take it from Red and toss it over his shoulder so he and N can bring a t-shirt over their bird’s head and get him covered. A worn hoodie, socks, and beat-up DCs is what he’d been wearing when he was taken.

Before they can release him, let the mask take over and cover up the vulnerabilities he only allows them to see, Hood eases a hand around the back of Baby Bird’s neck, presses the forehead of the helmet against Red’s, gloved fingers easing the knots out of the nape of the neck.

The eyes sharpen again, soften, and it gets him an easy smile, a real one.

N steps into them, palm soothing up and down his spine, presses the kiss Hood wants to press at the top of his head, more relieved when Red tilts his head into it, grips N’s hand tight to squeeze quickly.

“All right,” he pulls away with a hard swallow, forcing himself to _get a grip_. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

He’s back enough into himself to notice something pass from Robin to B as Hood hands the youngest Robin his cape back and grapples are pulled.

B holds out a hand in just _that way_. The way he did when Dick and Jason and Tim were _Robin_. The way that says everything when you’ve gotten the shit kicked out of you, when you’re bruised, bloody, battered, and everything still isn’t right with the world. It’s a beacon in the storm, the _I’ll keep you safe_ all of them _needed_ at one time or another.

And a small, hurt noise might have come from him when he steps up and takes the Batman’s offer with shaky hands, allowing the oldest vigilante to pull him easily against the Bat symbol on his chest ( _safe_ ), wrap the cape around him, and hold on _tight_ while the grapple fires up into impossible heights. Pressed right here, like when he was _that_ Robin, the trembling tension in every muscle tones down an iota, just enough that he can raise his arms under the cape and wrap them around B’s shoulders in such a familiar move. It’s safety and family, it’s a net to catch him when he’s falling and there’s no other way _out._

He holds on when gravity falls away, allowing B to support his weight with iron strength. The residual effects, the trauma, the nightmares and dreamscapes waiting to devour him when he finally has to give in to sleep—all those things hover in the distant future.

But.

The Bats flying with him, that pull him up into the Batplane, make him eat something, give him casual, light touches to keep him in the present; the four of them that grip and hold, that haven’t ( _won’t_ ) let him go will be there for those hard steps, will support him as much as he _needs_.

And in the aftermath, they’ll work with him, patrol with him, banter and fight with him, eat with him, watch terrible movies, and bitch about the day faces; they’ll give him the nest snugly in Gotham and Wayne Manor until he heals, until he can  _stand_ again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading


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